Downtown Grounds
16oz Lavender Soy Mocha
(Very) Blueberry Muffin
Okay, this one's definitely a mommy blog. It's a Mommy Fail blog.
I was considering closing out this blog altogether and focusing on the new "Sacrilicious Sunday Services" blog, but then I had a bad Wednesday. I'm still dealing with it, so I thought it was important enough to share with friends. I think I might make Sunday Services a vlog, anyway, since it seems like, logistically, it's going to be easier to make sure it happens on a Sunday that way. And some people prefer vids to blogs anyway. Look for links on alternating weeks.
Anyway.
I'll jump to the punchline - last Wednesday somebody recorded me yelling at my boys on the street. In the throws of a very bad mommy moment, I looked up to see someone across the street with his camera-phone pointed at me. It was the very last thing I need to see right then. I don't remember what I yelled at him, but it was not pleasant and probably had a good bit of profanity in it. I couldn't hear what he said back to me, and I didn't try to hear it. He never crossed to talk to me directly and eventually went away.
I don't know if this has ever happened before, if someone has recorded me breaking down in public. But this is not at all the first time I've been like this with the boys. I actually came up with a term for it: Ugly Mommy. I use the term with the boys so they understand when Mommy is getting frazzled and my patience is about to snap. I don't use it like a threat - "Watch out, or Ugly Mommy is going to get you!" It's more like a plea. "I'm getting frustrated and I need you to listen now - I don't want to be Ugly Mommy." It kind of works. They fully understand what's coming. But we all have our days, and Wednesday was bad for all of us.
I've been grappling with this since Henry was born. I've read up on it, I've talked to doctors and therapists, and even taken a class about accepting and processing strong emotions. And sometimes I am the very model of maternal bliss. People compliment me all the time when I'm out with the boys and tell me how wonderful and calm I am with them. I'm never quite comfortable with the compliments, because I know how bad I have been and how bad I sometimes still get.
I know it's hard to understand how someone who adores their children, who recognizes that they are just little children, can still yell and scream and swear and spank them. I never thought I would do any of that ever. I know it's all futile. I know it is the least effective way to teach them how to behave and, more importantly, how to handle their own emotions. At their age, to a large degree, they biologically can't control themselves. And Henry has something else going on, though we don't yet have an official diagnosis.
Every child is a little OCD with something (doors are one of Henry's biggest obsessions). But Henry has always been a little excessive compared to other kids. When he gets an idea in his head, he just cannot stop himself much of the time, especially when he's had an off day. Not enough sleep, not enough to eat for too long, and he gets a little more than cranky. The shriek. That's the worst. He has the kind of piercing scream that causes people to knock on bathroom doors and ask if everything is okay in there. Or people in restaurants and on the street to whip their heads around and make sure we're not beating our kid. All of which we had already dealt with that day.
I had dared to take them with me that morning to my physical therapy appointment and tried to set them up with some toys. Sometimes they're angels. Not that day. I ended up with more pain by the end of the appointment because of continually lunging to separate them, or hauling them up sideways to plop them on the table where I was not getting a massage. I did not yell or spank them in there - just had an internal meltdown. But crying in doctors' offices is kind of my catch phrase. I didn't lose it on them until we were outside and Oliver ran into traffic.
When I finally got them in the car, for the first time, I let lose on them the fear that someone will hear them screaming like maniacs and they'll think I'm hurting them and then people will come and take them away from me. We all cried for a while. A little later, we pulled it together enough to go get cheeseburgers (screw being vegetarian for the day) and we visited daddy at work and got lots of hugs. I thought we were past the worst of it.
I dared go out with them later and things hit the fan.
Henry started up in the Starbucks and I just said, "Okay. We're done. We're going home." That made him scream more, but I knew it would. But he kept going, and my pain was beyond my back then, and every shriek pierced my eardrums till they were ringing. I yelled at him for running away from me as we were trying to leave, because I had to leave Oliver in the stroller to go after him. He started following, but ran off again. I locked the stroller and grabbed him and flipped him upside down and yelled at him.
Sometimes being inverted distracts him from the shrieking enough to interrupt it and I can redirect him. It's not a good technique - no one is going to recommend it. It just sometimes works. It didn't then.
It was probably at this point that the guy started recording me. I had flipped Henry a couple of times - not for long, and not in a threatening way. But couple that with yelling at him to "shut the fuck up"... and there goes that Mom of the Year trophy! I yelled at him for screaming and causing mommy so much pain. I yelled at him for running away and making me leave Oliver alone again, and how he was going to get somebody hurt. Stress and pain and lack of sleep and not enough to eat and guilt and frustration and hopelessness...
And then some sanctimonious voyeur with a Baby Bjorn and a smartphone.
I was already tacking sideways off the rant and just starting to calm myself and my boys. Henry was reaching out and wanting to cling on to me... Oliver, too, whom I had not forgotten and I knew was upset by all the yelling. We were in the heart of downtown and being in public made me doubly sick. All I wanted was to pull it all together, calm my children, and get to the car.
All I could do after yelling at the stranger to leave us alone, was cry, not look at anyone else, not speak... I swapped the boys so Henry was confined in the stroller and couldn't run away. I continued to kneel there and hold them both, rub their backs and let them cry.
I noticed the guy with the smartphone had eventually walked away - down the direction we would have to walk. I noticed a lady who looked like she might have understood. Someone came by at one point and asked if we needed anything. "Water... maybe...?" I kept my head down and just shook my head. It was raining a little. I appreciated what he was trying to do but I couldn't tell him so. He had to have seen some of it at least, but I don't know how much.
It took a little while to make it the block to the car and get home. I told my husband to pick up a pizza, and when he got home I went into the other room, curled up on the floor, and tried to not feel like a monster.
My first impulses were to feel horrible about myself, then angry at the interloper, defensive... then guilty and sick, then angry at everybody again, then compassionate... and so on for the last several days. I've come up with a couple important takeaways.
First, I have to not let myself or anyone else stick me into a good mom or bad mom category. I have good mom moments, bad mom moments, and more in-between. You have to allow people to be something beyond what you judge them to be. Grace. Everyone needs to a little grace. Forgiveness. Compassion.
I'm going to assume, first, that this person meant well, that they heard something and weren't sure what was going on or what exactly to do, and they chose to document what was happening just in case they had to file some kind of report if the authorities needed to be involved. I'm also going to assume that this person can assume the best of me, that I was clearly not having a good day, that I was not at my best, but that I love my children and will try to do better every day. I'm going to assume that he didn't upload the video to YouTube with the title, "Look at this horrible mother."
The other takeaway is a little broader. I've realized that we really have no idea how to deal with things in our society. When we see or hear something troubling, something that could indicate something bad is taking place, we don't know what to do. We don't know how to approach other people. We don't know how to help or what to say. We just get uncomfortable and stay silent, mostly. Or we get adversarial. Confrontational.
I can't think of any movie or television show that showed a character approach another and say, "Hey, now - I can see you're in a bad place and I think it's time you take a moment. Let's de-escalate this before anything gets out of hand." Or something like that. Almost categorically, if one character approaches another, someone's going to take a swing, if only a verbal one.
We are not taught how to handle our own feelings. We are not taught how to handle each other's. We are not taught how to not take things personally. Telling kids to "shake it off" when they get called names at school doesn't really teach them anything. Try telling them, instead, that the other kid is doing that for their own reasons that have nothing to do with you. A bully's words have no value. In fact, they are the damaged ones to be treating people like that, and they deserve pity and compassion. Which is difficult to believe, and more difficult to practice, in the face of ridicule... or a thrown punch. But it is the right perspective and the right starting place for dealing with the situation.
Not that I knew any of this when I needed to. And not that it does much good now. But it is the right perspective. I feel better having written this much. The damage has been done with me and will take a long time to undo. All I can do is hope that being open with my boys will help them understand their own difficult feelings and that, while we can all be ugly at times, we can still keep trying to be better people. They'll have some tools, some perspectives, to try to deal with things as they arise over the years. I can't say they will get out of their childhood mentally unscathed, but I'm hoping that they will remember more good than bad, and that they will have a head start on their emotional maturity, over my own.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Sacrilicious Books & The SpiritMoon Cafe
Mix Sweet Shop
12oz Decaf Americano
Orange Macaroon (already nommed)
I used to imagine a little bookstore in a downtown somewhere, with a coffeeshop attached, that sold books on metaphysics and physics, religion and philosophy, and any other book that endeavored to understand and improve the Universe and ourselves within it. Within the discretion of the owner, of course. Which would be me. As I used to shelve books at Borders in the philosophy section, I would try to drive out Monty Python's "Philosophers Song" by fantasizing about my future store. There would be no "Inspirational Fiction" section, though I would obligingly special order any of the Left Behind series if someone had to have it - I'm not down with censorship. I would have a Nerf gun under the counter to threaten anyone who dared to set a book sideways on top of the other books in the section (don't you know what that does to the spines!). I would have a bookstore cat, a grey tabby named Melville.
And in the coffeeshop next door there would be a special menu. There would be a Philosopher's Blend, of course, maybe a Student's Brew sold at cost around mid-terms and finals. But there would also be a Poor Richard's Menu all the time. Just a handful of essentials, potent and healthful, sold as cheaply as we could make it. I've since heard of a trend at some coffeehouses where patrons will buy their own coffee and then buy a coffee for someone else to claim in the future for free. I would have loved to adopt something like this, too.
But my favorite fantasy was holding Sunday Services.
Back when I was closing up at midnight on Saturday nights at Borders, I imagined opening my own bookstore at that same hour, welcoming in a group of fellow over-thinkers. I imagined speaking to this broad and random group of people, giving my thoughts on a certain topic, then opening the discussion to the rest of the room, to question, to wonder, to argue. It would be in the spirit of the Socrates Cafes described in the book of the same name, which I used shelve. Open questioning, open listening. Coffee would be complimentary.
In the decade plus that has followed, this dream has all but disappeared. It is completely unfeasible now, and with almost 100% certainty, it will remain so. This used to deeply sadden me. Now, the thought of it exhausts me. Finances aside, the amount of energy such an endeavor would require are just beyond me now. But the thing I most regret is the loss of the dream of Sunday Services.
It seems like what this world needs most right now is to sit down and talk to each other. We can get at each other faster and sharper than ever through modern technology, but we're not talking to each other there. We'll mingle amongst the like minded but there is a casual brutality thrown at anyone who disagrees. Frankly, I hate that data-mining has lead to (among other more nefarious things) the customization of ads and suggested pages. I don't want to have my previous opinions repeated back to me. I would like to talk to people who may not think like I do now and see what common ground we share. The end result is that we are becoming more and more isolated from our great plurality. This is the fastest way to suffering and intransigence when trying to find solutions that we can all live with.
However, the internet also remains the greatest opportunity to reach out, to connect, to change things. So, in that spirit, I have decided to try to adapt Sunday Services to today's dream. With the help of anyone who reads this, if you're willing, I'm going to start a new blog and call it "Sunday Services." It will be a little more focused on a topic or question, and will hopefully be a little less wandering storytime with Chandra. I will try to put it out consistently on Sundays, and then - here's the audience participation part - I ask you readers to assemble somewhere with other people and talk about it. Ask, listen, rant... and then feel free to add what you're group covered to the comments section.
I can only hope that would elevate the tone of standard comments section on the internet.
So what do you think? Are you game for a little experiment in changing us all for the better?
Hell... Stranger things have happened.
12oz Decaf Americano
Orange Macaroon (already nommed)
I used to imagine a little bookstore in a downtown somewhere, with a coffeeshop attached, that sold books on metaphysics and physics, religion and philosophy, and any other book that endeavored to understand and improve the Universe and ourselves within it. Within the discretion of the owner, of course. Which would be me. As I used to shelve books at Borders in the philosophy section, I would try to drive out Monty Python's "Philosophers Song" by fantasizing about my future store. There would be no "Inspirational Fiction" section, though I would obligingly special order any of the Left Behind series if someone had to have it - I'm not down with censorship. I would have a Nerf gun under the counter to threaten anyone who dared to set a book sideways on top of the other books in the section (don't you know what that does to the spines!). I would have a bookstore cat, a grey tabby named Melville.
And in the coffeeshop next door there would be a special menu. There would be a Philosopher's Blend, of course, maybe a Student's Brew sold at cost around mid-terms and finals. But there would also be a Poor Richard's Menu all the time. Just a handful of essentials, potent and healthful, sold as cheaply as we could make it. I've since heard of a trend at some coffeehouses where patrons will buy their own coffee and then buy a coffee for someone else to claim in the future for free. I would have loved to adopt something like this, too.
But my favorite fantasy was holding Sunday Services.
Back when I was closing up at midnight on Saturday nights at Borders, I imagined opening my own bookstore at that same hour, welcoming in a group of fellow over-thinkers. I imagined speaking to this broad and random group of people, giving my thoughts on a certain topic, then opening the discussion to the rest of the room, to question, to wonder, to argue. It would be in the spirit of the Socrates Cafes described in the book of the same name, which I used shelve. Open questioning, open listening. Coffee would be complimentary.
In the decade plus that has followed, this dream has all but disappeared. It is completely unfeasible now, and with almost 100% certainty, it will remain so. This used to deeply sadden me. Now, the thought of it exhausts me. Finances aside, the amount of energy such an endeavor would require are just beyond me now. But the thing I most regret is the loss of the dream of Sunday Services.
It seems like what this world needs most right now is to sit down and talk to each other. We can get at each other faster and sharper than ever through modern technology, but we're not talking to each other there. We'll mingle amongst the like minded but there is a casual brutality thrown at anyone who disagrees. Frankly, I hate that data-mining has lead to (among other more nefarious things) the customization of ads and suggested pages. I don't want to have my previous opinions repeated back to me. I would like to talk to people who may not think like I do now and see what common ground we share. The end result is that we are becoming more and more isolated from our great plurality. This is the fastest way to suffering and intransigence when trying to find solutions that we can all live with.
However, the internet also remains the greatest opportunity to reach out, to connect, to change things. So, in that spirit, I have decided to try to adapt Sunday Services to today's dream. With the help of anyone who reads this, if you're willing, I'm going to start a new blog and call it "Sunday Services." It will be a little more focused on a topic or question, and will hopefully be a little less wandering storytime with Chandra. I will try to put it out consistently on Sundays, and then - here's the audience participation part - I ask you readers to assemble somewhere with other people and talk about it. Ask, listen, rant... and then feel free to add what you're group covered to the comments section.
I can only hope that would elevate the tone of standard comments section on the internet.
So what do you think? Are you game for a little experiment in changing us all for the better?
Hell... Stranger things have happened.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Distance: The Original Sin
Rogue Valley Roasting Co.
16oz Americano
Vegetarian Breakfast Burrito
{started on March 24th at...
Starbucks
16oz (no, I did not order a "grande") Soy Vanilla "Machiatto"
(not to be snarky about it...)
Coffeecake}
Evil acts are downright easy from a distance. Little evils, big evils. How simple to kill a man, or other animal, when you're just twitching a finger on a gun maybe dozens of yards away? And animal rights are such an abstract thing when it's so easy to eat the animal on your plate, never having watched it live out its existence covered in its own feces with atrophied muscles from a confinement so restrictive it was never in its lifetime able to use its limbs.
Mmm-mmm, bacon.
I'm as guilty as the next Aquarius for committing acts of unbrotherly and unsisterly apathy. I like to think of myself as as hyper-sensitive and hyper-empathetic, but there's a lot that I have let slide in my lifetime. And despite the feeling that I think about everything all the time, there's a lot in the world that I've just never thought about. I've made assumptions about the way things are and have been shocked at times when someone speaks out to tell it like it really is. No one person can have every experience, so we must be willing to listen to anyone and everyone if we want to understand the true state of the world.
This sin of distance comes in two parts: first, committing harmful acts out of ignorance, and second, committing to your ignorance.
Have you ever felt like no matter how much you tell your higher-ups that something is not going to work, they just keep telling you to get them the results they want? Or some variation thereof. The Home Office just has no clue.
Back when I was working the chaotic opening of the Landmark Theatres in Westwood, CA, we were trying to implement a new assigned ticketing system. For almost all theaters, when you purchased your ticket you would review a map of the theater and choose any available seat for your movie. Then an usher would seat you just like at a concert venue. We had a problem, though. We had two smaller living-room-style theaters with plush chairs and couches. This caused no end of grief in the first few weeks as we were still working out the ticketing system for the regular theaters. However, the higher-ups were insistent that we do the assigned seating for these theaters, too - immediately.
Then one night, as another irate costumer was complaining about not being able to sit in her assigned seat because our improvised manual system was failing again, the assistant manager on the receiving end spotted one of the big-wigs mingling nearby. The manager boldly escorted the customer over to him. It was a thing of beauty. Half an hour later, wonder of wonders, we got the word: "We can't assign seats in those theaters - we're not ready yet!"
Yes, jackass - that's what we've been telling you.
None of the folks at the home office were bad people. Most of the people I dealt with were very nice, in fact. Their only sin, in this matter, was distance. They didn't work the "business end" of the business, never interacted with customers, or had their quiet indie flick drowned out by the action-junkie blockbuster in the theater next door. You could tell them the air conditioning was set too low in the bathrooms, but until they had to drop trou and gingerly rest their goose-pimpled bottoms on that frigid toilet seat, they were more likely to say, "Hey, the colder it is, the faster they get out of there and make room for other people."
Just as you can't really understand your business if you try running it without ever working it, so you can't fully understand another person if you've never shared their experiences. And that psychological distance allows for the death of empathy. If you've never worked behind the counter during the pre/post-train rush, or delivered packages at Christmas, your understanding of the barista and the delivery guy are limited. It becomes easy to form false judgements, to criticize and to abuse. Which is bad enough for the daily grind, but the consequences can run much deeper.
I've been hearing more recently about how there is a general perception among many of the super-mega-OMG rich that they feel persecuted for their wealth. There's even one (whose name escapes me, but if you're at all a political lefty, you probably know who I'm talking about) who wrote an op-ed likening criticism of our current wealth inequality to Nazi Germany. That is some kind of mental gymnastics to come to that conclusion. The problem is that, the further you live from the consequences of inequality, the easier it is to believe they don't exist, that they're not really that bad, or that they have other causes.
I talk a lot about the Ramenista class - the working poor - because they (okay, I) take a lot of abuse. When business owners and politicians stay so far away from the lowest-earning workers, it becomes easy to not see us. It's easy - tragically easy - to say that poor people are poor because they're lazy, when the elites don't have to don the polo shirt and take the abuse at one job, then hop a bus, change into a different polo shirt in a public restroom to get ridiculed at your second job. Or that poor people should be poor because they're all just kids anyway who don't need a living wage because they can still live with their parents. Even though, it's statistically more likely that they are not living off their parents but that they are a single parent, trying to support at least one child with a dwindling social support system.
A certain percentage of the population living without healthcare is an acceptable situation, until you see that person going without their medication, missing work, and losing their job because they have no insurance and don't qualify for help. Or because they do qualify for assistance now but they live in a state where their governor refused the federal money allotted for them under the new healthcare guidelines. When you see up close the people suffering and dying, unless you are a bona fide sociopath biologically incapable of empathy, you have to accept that the system, as is, is unacceptable and downright cruel.
It hurts to change your way of thinking. It hurts to see yourself committing acts of real harm, through your indifference or denial - but especially, your nurtured denial. The human mind will do anything it must to avoid being the bad guy - even convincing itself it's good to be the bad guy. We will tell ourselves any lie to protect our ego and our desires. The greatest challenge for the human mind is honesty. The greatest virtue we can hope to achieve is changing our mind... To see through the life of another with honest empathy, and accept our role in their lives, and how we must change to live a life of real compassion.
I don't hate or vilify the rich, or mega-rich, or even the corrupt politicians. They are not all party to the same thinking, no matter how prevalent it may prove to be. I think of them as suffering from an illness not of their own creation: distance. Some have immunity, either from their own personal experiences or proper nurturing to overcome it. Others are simply unaware of their affliction and the damage it can cause themselves and others. Some, however, refuse to look at the xrays, willfully misread the lab results. They coddle their tumors, curl in around their sores and back themselves into corners (albeit very plush comfy corners with exquisite fabrics), hissing at the world to stay away and quit poking at their tender spots.
These are the people in need of the greatest compassion. It will take the most gentle, patient care to cure them. My words to them will not always be kind - they have to take responsibility for their destructive actions. But I would hope to never be cruel, and to find a way for them to accept a new, more accurate worldview, one that they could be a positive part of.
I am such a fucking hippy. Peace out.
16oz Americano
Vegetarian Breakfast Burrito
{started on March 24th at...
Starbucks
16oz (no, I did not order a "grande") Soy Vanilla "Machiatto"
(not to be snarky about it...)
Coffeecake}
Evil acts are downright easy from a distance. Little evils, big evils. How simple to kill a man, or other animal, when you're just twitching a finger on a gun maybe dozens of yards away? And animal rights are such an abstract thing when it's so easy to eat the animal on your plate, never having watched it live out its existence covered in its own feces with atrophied muscles from a confinement so restrictive it was never in its lifetime able to use its limbs.
Mmm-mmm, bacon.
I'm as guilty as the next Aquarius for committing acts of unbrotherly and unsisterly apathy. I like to think of myself as as hyper-sensitive and hyper-empathetic, but there's a lot that I have let slide in my lifetime. And despite the feeling that I think about everything all the time, there's a lot in the world that I've just never thought about. I've made assumptions about the way things are and have been shocked at times when someone speaks out to tell it like it really is. No one person can have every experience, so we must be willing to listen to anyone and everyone if we want to understand the true state of the world.
This sin of distance comes in two parts: first, committing harmful acts out of ignorance, and second, committing to your ignorance.
Have you ever felt like no matter how much you tell your higher-ups that something is not going to work, they just keep telling you to get them the results they want? Or some variation thereof. The Home Office just has no clue.
Back when I was working the chaotic opening of the Landmark Theatres in Westwood, CA, we were trying to implement a new assigned ticketing system. For almost all theaters, when you purchased your ticket you would review a map of the theater and choose any available seat for your movie. Then an usher would seat you just like at a concert venue. We had a problem, though. We had two smaller living-room-style theaters with plush chairs and couches. This caused no end of grief in the first few weeks as we were still working out the ticketing system for the regular theaters. However, the higher-ups were insistent that we do the assigned seating for these theaters, too - immediately.
Then one night, as another irate costumer was complaining about not being able to sit in her assigned seat because our improvised manual system was failing again, the assistant manager on the receiving end spotted one of the big-wigs mingling nearby. The manager boldly escorted the customer over to him. It was a thing of beauty. Half an hour later, wonder of wonders, we got the word: "We can't assign seats in those theaters - we're not ready yet!"
Yes, jackass - that's what we've been telling you.
None of the folks at the home office were bad people. Most of the people I dealt with were very nice, in fact. Their only sin, in this matter, was distance. They didn't work the "business end" of the business, never interacted with customers, or had their quiet indie flick drowned out by the action-junkie blockbuster in the theater next door. You could tell them the air conditioning was set too low in the bathrooms, but until they had to drop trou and gingerly rest their goose-pimpled bottoms on that frigid toilet seat, they were more likely to say, "Hey, the colder it is, the faster they get out of there and make room for other people."
Just as you can't really understand your business if you try running it without ever working it, so you can't fully understand another person if you've never shared their experiences. And that psychological distance allows for the death of empathy. If you've never worked behind the counter during the pre/post-train rush, or delivered packages at Christmas, your understanding of the barista and the delivery guy are limited. It becomes easy to form false judgements, to criticize and to abuse. Which is bad enough for the daily grind, but the consequences can run much deeper.
I've been hearing more recently about how there is a general perception among many of the super-mega-OMG rich that they feel persecuted for their wealth. There's even one (whose name escapes me, but if you're at all a political lefty, you probably know who I'm talking about) who wrote an op-ed likening criticism of our current wealth inequality to Nazi Germany. That is some kind of mental gymnastics to come to that conclusion. The problem is that, the further you live from the consequences of inequality, the easier it is to believe they don't exist, that they're not really that bad, or that they have other causes.
I talk a lot about the Ramenista class - the working poor - because they (okay, I) take a lot of abuse. When business owners and politicians stay so far away from the lowest-earning workers, it becomes easy to not see us. It's easy - tragically easy - to say that poor people are poor because they're lazy, when the elites don't have to don the polo shirt and take the abuse at one job, then hop a bus, change into a different polo shirt in a public restroom to get ridiculed at your second job. Or that poor people should be poor because they're all just kids anyway who don't need a living wage because they can still live with their parents. Even though, it's statistically more likely that they are not living off their parents but that they are a single parent, trying to support at least one child with a dwindling social support system.
A certain percentage of the population living without healthcare is an acceptable situation, until you see that person going without their medication, missing work, and losing their job because they have no insurance and don't qualify for help. Or because they do qualify for assistance now but they live in a state where their governor refused the federal money allotted for them under the new healthcare guidelines. When you see up close the people suffering and dying, unless you are a bona fide sociopath biologically incapable of empathy, you have to accept that the system, as is, is unacceptable and downright cruel.
It hurts to change your way of thinking. It hurts to see yourself committing acts of real harm, through your indifference or denial - but especially, your nurtured denial. The human mind will do anything it must to avoid being the bad guy - even convincing itself it's good to be the bad guy. We will tell ourselves any lie to protect our ego and our desires. The greatest challenge for the human mind is honesty. The greatest virtue we can hope to achieve is changing our mind... To see through the life of another with honest empathy, and accept our role in their lives, and how we must change to live a life of real compassion.
I don't hate or vilify the rich, or mega-rich, or even the corrupt politicians. They are not all party to the same thinking, no matter how prevalent it may prove to be. I think of them as suffering from an illness not of their own creation: distance. Some have immunity, either from their own personal experiences or proper nurturing to overcome it. Others are simply unaware of their affliction and the damage it can cause themselves and others. Some, however, refuse to look at the xrays, willfully misread the lab results. They coddle their tumors, curl in around their sores and back themselves into corners (albeit very plush comfy corners with exquisite fabrics), hissing at the world to stay away and quit poking at their tender spots.
These are the people in need of the greatest compassion. It will take the most gentle, patient care to cure them. My words to them will not always be kind - they have to take responsibility for their destructive actions. But I would hope to never be cruel, and to find a way for them to accept a new, more accurate worldview, one that they could be a positive part of.
I am such a fucking hippy. Peace out.
Monday, March 31, 2014
A day in the life of a Black Hole
Mix Sweet Shop
12oz Soy Mocha
something yummy with hummus
There's stuff in my brain that I just have to write out of the way... Maybe it's because I've been getting blasted with x-ray machines all day.
I found myself crying watching Cosmos last night. I know - crying, again - kinda my thing. I didn't cry during the episode on evolution - I was happily fascinated. But last night focused on black holes and relativity and things like that, and that is the stuff I wanted to study in school, way back a million years ago. I used to have a hard time shelving in the math and science sections while I was working for Borders. I'd get choked up at the knowledge drifting further and further away...
The light of that knowledge is so distant now, I can't remember if the appropriate geek punchline would be Red Shift or Blue Shift.
In fairness, I had a hard time shelving in the philosophy section, too, but that had more to do with getting the Philosopher's Song from Monty Python stuck in my head. Though I did want to minor in philosophy in school... and music... ya know, if only I had the time...
I've come to believe "if only" is one of the worst expletives in the English language.
A few weeks ago, the boys and I stopped to watch a young man on the street playing the cello. Within a block, we heard a young woman singing light opera across the street. We did not stop. My smile disappeared and I rerouted the boys to the park instead. They were both talented young performers, playing and singing beautiful music, and both experiences should have made me smile.
But I've never played a cello.
No matter how much I try to let go of the past and make the best of the here and now, I find myself mourning lives never lived. I weep over a voice I've all but lost, a body I never had, and a wealth of knowledge that will likely remain as distant as any exploded star. It's pathetic - it is really pathetic - but I can't seem to let go.
Who knows? Maybe I'll get it together someday.
I got to see my big brother this weekend. My fellow Eeyore. It was a short visit but we had some interesting conversation. We talked a little philosophy, a little religion, trying to find truth and happiness in this Universe. We talked about the assertion that you can't pick and choose what you believe. I came to this distinction...
If you claim that this one doctrine, be it religious of philosophical, is the correct infallible answer, then it would be hypocritical to pick and choose which of the tenants you were going to follow. If, however, you recognize that there could be truth within fallible human interpretation, then it would be entirely consistent to say, "I will accept what I recognize to be valid in this and I will reject what I consider to be the prejudice inherent in that."
Put another way... "It's not about finding the one true answer, but finding what is true in the many answers..."
One example in the news of late - all this kerfuffle about contraception... It is understandable why cultures and religions would impose the norm of being married before having sex because of the consequences of conceiving a child before everyone was ready to raise it. That doesn't make sex sinful. It makes abandonment and neglect the real sin. The truth is the body is meant for sex. It's healthy and good and necessary for physical and mental well-being. But religions and cultures need to come to terms with the state of the world today.
We have the medical means of exploding the population now, which means that - for the sake of the survival of the planet and all living beings - we are going to have to curtail our normal rate of reproduction, whether it's before or after marriage. And - thank the heavens! - we have the knowledge to deal with that, too! We have condoms and vasectomies and pills (oh, my!). How blessed are we that we can use our knowledge to care for the sexual health of our bodies and prevent overpopulation from destroying our little planet at the same time?
I picked up a little motivational card while walking around with my brother this weekend. It had a quote from the Dalai Lama - an earnest truth-seeker if ever there was one. I don't have it in front of me now, but it said all that good stuff about recognizing how precious and brief is our time of existence. It said, basically, live while you're alive - try to make it a better life and a better world. And all that fluffy hippy stuff. I'll put it up on a wall somewhere and hopefully, given enough bendy, wonky space-time... I'll get the message.
12oz Soy Mocha
something yummy with hummus
There's stuff in my brain that I just have to write out of the way... Maybe it's because I've been getting blasted with x-ray machines all day.
I found myself crying watching Cosmos last night. I know - crying, again - kinda my thing. I didn't cry during the episode on evolution - I was happily fascinated. But last night focused on black holes and relativity and things like that, and that is the stuff I wanted to study in school, way back a million years ago. I used to have a hard time shelving in the math and science sections while I was working for Borders. I'd get choked up at the knowledge drifting further and further away...
The light of that knowledge is so distant now, I can't remember if the appropriate geek punchline would be Red Shift or Blue Shift.
In fairness, I had a hard time shelving in the philosophy section, too, but that had more to do with getting the Philosopher's Song from Monty Python stuck in my head. Though I did want to minor in philosophy in school... and music... ya know, if only I had the time...
I've come to believe "if only" is one of the worst expletives in the English language.
A few weeks ago, the boys and I stopped to watch a young man on the street playing the cello. Within a block, we heard a young woman singing light opera across the street. We did not stop. My smile disappeared and I rerouted the boys to the park instead. They were both talented young performers, playing and singing beautiful music, and both experiences should have made me smile.
But I've never played a cello.
No matter how much I try to let go of the past and make the best of the here and now, I find myself mourning lives never lived. I weep over a voice I've all but lost, a body I never had, and a wealth of knowledge that will likely remain as distant as any exploded star. It's pathetic - it is really pathetic - but I can't seem to let go.
Who knows? Maybe I'll get it together someday.
I got to see my big brother this weekend. My fellow Eeyore. It was a short visit but we had some interesting conversation. We talked a little philosophy, a little religion, trying to find truth and happiness in this Universe. We talked about the assertion that you can't pick and choose what you believe. I came to this distinction...
If you claim that this one doctrine, be it religious of philosophical, is the correct infallible answer, then it would be hypocritical to pick and choose which of the tenants you were going to follow. If, however, you recognize that there could be truth within fallible human interpretation, then it would be entirely consistent to say, "I will accept what I recognize to be valid in this and I will reject what I consider to be the prejudice inherent in that."
Put another way... "It's not about finding the one true answer, but finding what is true in the many answers..."
One example in the news of late - all this kerfuffle about contraception... It is understandable why cultures and religions would impose the norm of being married before having sex because of the consequences of conceiving a child before everyone was ready to raise it. That doesn't make sex sinful. It makes abandonment and neglect the real sin. The truth is the body is meant for sex. It's healthy and good and necessary for physical and mental well-being. But religions and cultures need to come to terms with the state of the world today.
We have the medical means of exploding the population now, which means that - for the sake of the survival of the planet and all living beings - we are going to have to curtail our normal rate of reproduction, whether it's before or after marriage. And - thank the heavens! - we have the knowledge to deal with that, too! We have condoms and vasectomies and pills (oh, my!). How blessed are we that we can use our knowledge to care for the sexual health of our bodies and prevent overpopulation from destroying our little planet at the same time?
I picked up a little motivational card while walking around with my brother this weekend. It had a quote from the Dalai Lama - an earnest truth-seeker if ever there was one. I don't have it in front of me now, but it said all that good stuff about recognizing how precious and brief is our time of existence. It said, basically, live while you're alive - try to make it a better life and a better world. And all that fluffy hippy stuff. I'll put it up on a wall somewhere and hopefully, given enough bendy, wonky space-time... I'll get the message.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Recalculating... Tow jobs, changed plans, and disappearing mountains.
Rogue Valley Roasting Company
16oz Soy Vanilla Latte
Spinach Frittata
No, God didn't smite me for the last blog - I've just been busy.
For starters, I had one of the craziest trips of my life. It was a movie-style road trip, oscillating from nostalgic to epic to absurd, and all kinds of emotions in between. It was supposed to be emotional. It was my first trip away from my boys, even my husband. Not one night apart, and now I would be gone for two nights, driving from southern Oregon to southern California and back, seeing long lost friends along the way. And I would be going for the express purpose of attending a memorial service for my late grandmother. Emotions were sure to abound.
But what happened was more than emotional. It was surreal, chaotic, wonderful, exhausting.
The departure was preceded by last-minute work- and doctor- schedule shuffling, rental car finagling, last minute over-packing and three hours of sleep. And irony. This trip was rife with irony, starting with my husband suggesting, as we tearfully parted in the parking lot of the Enterprise Rent-a-Car, that I leave my spare key set with him. Just in case, though he had never locked his keys in either of our cars in the last six years. I told him I'd leave them by the door before I left the apartment. But you know where this is going. I got the call about half an hour later that the keys were dangling from the ignition of the locked car. Fortunately, we have lock-out service on our insurance so I didn't have to double-back to rescue him.
Delays departing - and delays getting turned around while getting off the freeway for gas - resulted in arriving in Sacramento just in time to get stuck in rush hour traffic. Sac-Town traffic isn't L.A. traffic, but it will turn a one day, 10-hour haul down I-5 into a two day schlepp, with an overnight nap at a truck stop. So, "recalculating"... I made the best of it by extending my planned visit to an old friend in town. And by taking advantage of his massage therapy training. It was much needed and helped offset the nap in the backseat that followed later that night.
But that visit was more than just nostalgia and free back care from an old friend. This old friend was an old boyfriend, and a special one at that. I had made a point to see him that day because the next day was Bean's day: the day our child would have turned 6, if I had kept her.
We cried. We wondered about all the different paths our lives could have taken, separate or together. What if I had made the other choice? What if I had stayed in SoCal? Would one of those jobs have come through? The one that called me back first thing that very Monday morning after the abortion... Would that have been stability enough? Would it all have brought he and I back together? Would we have eventually fallen apart anyway?
I couldn't go back and choose otherwise now. I would be unchoosing the life I have now, my husband and sons. Delays, obstacles, torrential downpours arose - I recalculated. And this is where I am on the path now.
Did I mention the torrential downpours? Prior to my trip, my L.A. friends were going on about the crazy 80 degree weather. Apparently, I dragged some Oregon rain along with me. There were moments on the drive when the rain was so intense I could barely see the car ahead of me. I have encountered rain before. And snow, and fog so dense it was like driving into a wall. But I have rarely navigated rain like that - especially not at 70 miles an hour.
(Oops. Battery died. Had to "Recalculate!" Moved to another seat, ordered a new drink (Lemon Hibiscus Tea), visited an old friend at another table, and plugged in the charger. And on we go...)
But California cannot begrudge any rain, no matter how inconvenient. You may have heard already, the drought is getting pretty terrible. How terrible? I drove over Shasta Lake on my way down and it took my breath away. The water level had receded so far since my last drive just a few years ago that great swaths of red soil lay bare, well below the line of trees that ringed the mountain lake.
Imagine a mountain that had always lay on your horizon, or a small hill you would hike on sunny weekends... the giant oak trees that ringed your house growing up - two towers of your skyline - suddenly gone. That was the volume of water that has been bled away from that one lake.
So, perilous or not, as a native Californian I was just as grateful for the rain. But it was still jarring to see. And that was what the whole trip felt like: familiar and changed and intense.
I woke up to the sun the next morning. And it was an epic sun. I had had a few hours of sleep in the back of the rental car, but I woke up rejuvenated. I had slept in Santa Nella, off the 152 (yes, I said "the 152" - I am a Californian), where I have stopped so many times before. I knew I had about 4 hours of road to go (with the requisite stop in Buttonwillow, which is a whole other dramatic tale), and slightly more than 4 hours before the service started.
I found an old CD mix with the words of another old friend (and, yes, ex-boyfriend) written across it. It had been made for another trip to SoCal many years before. Dawn broke to the song "Light and Day" by the MotherfuckingPolyphonicSpreeeeeee!! (as he always used to say it). And as I glanced out my right-hand window to that triumphant chorus - there was a damn rainbow.
As if the moment couldn't get more awesome, in the rearview mirror I saw the other end of the rainbow touching smack-down on the interstate behind me.
I pulled into the parking lot of the church in North Hollywood with 15 minutes to spare.
It was a beautiful service with more laughter than crying, and more applause than you would expect at a memorial. There were wonderful stories of a beautiful person... "Do I pass the joint to his mother!?"... "It was Anne's Hand guiding me to buy my first can of ReddiWhip!"... "She always made sure to say, 'I love you,' when we said good-bye..." She was the kind of lady you who would totally send you a rainbow, with a soundtrack, and guide you to her memorial with time to pee when you got there.
After a reception with more laughter and sniffles - and another surprise neck rub - I was laden with leftovers and hugs from more departing relatives. It was time to go see as many old friends as I could wrangle into one day. I had one definitive destination - Griffith Observatory - with an assortment of others I was going to see if I could work in.
I picked up one friend - "I have cake in the back, if you want some!" - and we successfully made it to an art installation in Hollywood. One wall of the installation had to be propped up around the rest of the room as they had unexpected leaking from my Oregon-born deluge.
We had hot chocolates in a coffeeshop at the corner of Cahuenga and Sunset Blvd, looking across the street at Amoeba Records and ArcLight Cinemas. I reminisced about being a manager on the opening night of The Landmark in Westwood, and how one guy had been literally frothing at the mouth while yelling at me, because he had been told we were going to be better than the ArcLight and we were "Nothing!" like the ArcLight. I've worked a lot of retail, and I can say with authority that movie theater customers are the worst I've had to deal with - especially the ones from Los Angeles.
We headed back to the car.
We passed the gallery again.
We turn around and head back towards the coffee shop.
"Where's the car?"
We found the parking spot. We did not find the car. I read the sign - the bottom sign - and it said No Parking on Sundays. I had read it through at least three times to be sure. It was Saturday. I read the sign above that one. "Zip Car" Parking Only. I read the next sign. Call 3-1-1 to get your car back. Idiot.
Never trust good parking in L.A.
The mayor's voice on the recording informed me that I needed to call back between 8a.m. and 4:45p.m. It was just past 5. At least they would be open on Sunday.
Recalculating...
I called up the other friends I was going to meet up with. "Hi, Bill - I need a rescue." I am a teenager again, and hating it. Bill is almost happy. He was going to have an easy night and see people and go the the Observatory, and he wasn't sure how to handle this recreational time. Now he was on familiar territory. We headed across the street to Amoeba Records to eat up some time.
"I'm surprised how well you're taking this. I would be screaming and cussing right now..."
"Oh, trust me - freaking out is still totally on the menu..."
Then I remembered my earlier offer. "Alas... I have no cake."
It had been so long since I'd had free time in a music store, I didn't know what to do with myself. I love music but my brain went completely blank in the face of so much opportunity. I found an audiobook by the Dalai Lama for the drive home, and the clerk kindly found me a discount in sympathy for my plight.
Our rescue took much longer - traffic and wrong turns and just L.A. being L.A. (I have never - never - had this many wrong turns in a single trip, ever). Griffith Observatory was off the agenda but there were still more friends to see. By then, however, my phone was dying and the charger was - where else? - in the rental in the impound lot. We made due with a good old Thomas Bros. Guide and found ourselves outside a horse stable. With 4% battery life, I called my friend for new directions.
"I think you're on the wrong side of Victory..."
Story of my life.
We found her at last and had a pleasant evening talking of writing, geek stuff, health stuff, driving the 5 (yes, I said "the 5" again), and disappearing mountains. I was reminded how there used to be bugs on the windshield when I drove up north as a child. And birds, and other wildlife. I remembered the low-flying aircraft spraying the fields at daybreak that morning, as I closed the air vents.
If there was some greater message from this trip, I have no idea what it was. The next day was full of more of the same craziness. I couldn't get the car out of the impound lot because I couldn't use the credit card because it doesn't have my name on it. We found an ATM but couldn't pull the money out because the bank put a hold on the account for suspicious activity. (Fyi - if you're traveling, let your bank know - apparently, there's a form online we were supposed to have filled out). Since my name is not on that account either, I called home to have my husband call the bank.
No answer.
For the next several hours - no answer.
I sat with my friends drinking coffee - at least Starbucks would take the credit card! - and as we stared at a colorful picture of Einstein across the street, I told them the Tale of Buttonwillow and how it had changed the course of my life completely... I was 18 then, on my way back to my hometown of Santa Cruz to begin my college days studying math and physics. All that Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein stuff. I thought at the time I would one day have business cards that read, "Actually, I am a rocket scientist..."
Long story short, I still have no college degree and every friend I saw that weekend I have because of getting waylaid in Buttonwillow, almost 17 years ago.
There were still many, many more twists to come on that current trip, but things were figured out (hubby had been sick all morning and wasn't checking his phone) and I made it home, just a day later than I had originally planned. (I spent another night in the parking lot in Santa Nella). I did finally have my freak out - a couple in fact - full on panic attacks like I haven't had in a while. But things are finally coming back together. And, bots take note, Out Days have shifted to Sundays and Mondays in this whole process.
I'm still wondering what it all meant. That lottery ticket I picked up sure wasn't the great cosmic payoff... I knew I needed to go - I hate southern California and I had been feeling unreasonably nostalgic for it. I thought this would resolve that. I'm still glad I went, but I feel like the path ahead is no clearer. I will have to trust that, as with Buttonwillow, there are now experiences in my life that will change the course of my future... and I will only be able to see their origins in the rearview on the path to come.
16oz Soy Vanilla Latte
Spinach Frittata
No, God didn't smite me for the last blog - I've just been busy.
For starters, I had one of the craziest trips of my life. It was a movie-style road trip, oscillating from nostalgic to epic to absurd, and all kinds of emotions in between. It was supposed to be emotional. It was my first trip away from my boys, even my husband. Not one night apart, and now I would be gone for two nights, driving from southern Oregon to southern California and back, seeing long lost friends along the way. And I would be going for the express purpose of attending a memorial service for my late grandmother. Emotions were sure to abound.
But what happened was more than emotional. It was surreal, chaotic, wonderful, exhausting.
The departure was preceded by last-minute work- and doctor- schedule shuffling, rental car finagling, last minute over-packing and three hours of sleep. And irony. This trip was rife with irony, starting with my husband suggesting, as we tearfully parted in the parking lot of the Enterprise Rent-a-Car, that I leave my spare key set with him. Just in case, though he had never locked his keys in either of our cars in the last six years. I told him I'd leave them by the door before I left the apartment. But you know where this is going. I got the call about half an hour later that the keys were dangling from the ignition of the locked car. Fortunately, we have lock-out service on our insurance so I didn't have to double-back to rescue him.
There be dragons on this Interstate...
Delays departing - and delays getting turned around while getting off the freeway for gas - resulted in arriving in Sacramento just in time to get stuck in rush hour traffic. Sac-Town traffic isn't L.A. traffic, but it will turn a one day, 10-hour haul down I-5 into a two day schlepp, with an overnight nap at a truck stop. So, "recalculating"... I made the best of it by extending my planned visit to an old friend in town. And by taking advantage of his massage therapy training. It was much needed and helped offset the nap in the backseat that followed later that night.
But that visit was more than just nostalgia and free back care from an old friend. This old friend was an old boyfriend, and a special one at that. I had made a point to see him that day because the next day was Bean's day: the day our child would have turned 6, if I had kept her.
We cried. We wondered about all the different paths our lives could have taken, separate or together. What if I had made the other choice? What if I had stayed in SoCal? Would one of those jobs have come through? The one that called me back first thing that very Monday morning after the abortion... Would that have been stability enough? Would it all have brought he and I back together? Would we have eventually fallen apart anyway?
I couldn't go back and choose otherwise now. I would be unchoosing the life I have now, my husband and sons. Delays, obstacles, torrential downpours arose - I recalculated. And this is where I am on the path now.
Did I mention the torrential downpours? Prior to my trip, my L.A. friends were going on about the crazy 80 degree weather. Apparently, I dragged some Oregon rain along with me. There were moments on the drive when the rain was so intense I could barely see the car ahead of me. I have encountered rain before. And snow, and fog so dense it was like driving into a wall. But I have rarely navigated rain like that - especially not at 70 miles an hour.
(Oops. Battery died. Had to "Recalculate!" Moved to another seat, ordered a new drink (Lemon Hibiscus Tea), visited an old friend at another table, and plugged in the charger. And on we go...)
But California cannot begrudge any rain, no matter how inconvenient. You may have heard already, the drought is getting pretty terrible. How terrible? I drove over Shasta Lake on my way down and it took my breath away. The water level had receded so far since my last drive just a few years ago that great swaths of red soil lay bare, well below the line of trees that ringed the mountain lake.
Imagine a mountain that had always lay on your horizon, or a small hill you would hike on sunny weekends... the giant oak trees that ringed your house growing up - two towers of your skyline - suddenly gone. That was the volume of water that has been bled away from that one lake.
So, perilous or not, as a native Californian I was just as grateful for the rain. But it was still jarring to see. And that was what the whole trip felt like: familiar and changed and intense.
I woke up to the sun the next morning. And it was an epic sun. I had had a few hours of sleep in the back of the rental car, but I woke up rejuvenated. I had slept in Santa Nella, off the 152 (yes, I said "the 152" - I am a Californian), where I have stopped so many times before. I knew I had about 4 hours of road to go (with the requisite stop in Buttonwillow, which is a whole other dramatic tale), and slightly more than 4 hours before the service started.
I found an old CD mix with the words of another old friend (and, yes, ex-boyfriend) written across it. It had been made for another trip to SoCal many years before. Dawn broke to the song "Light and Day" by the MotherfuckingPolyphonicSpreeeeeee!! (as he always used to say it). And as I glanced out my right-hand window to that triumphant chorus - there was a damn rainbow.
As if the moment couldn't get more awesome, in the rearview mirror I saw the other end of the rainbow touching smack-down on the interstate behind me.
I pulled into the parking lot of the church in North Hollywood with 15 minutes to spare.
It was a beautiful service with more laughter than crying, and more applause than you would expect at a memorial. There were wonderful stories of a beautiful person... "Do I pass the joint to his mother!?"... "It was Anne's Hand guiding me to buy my first can of ReddiWhip!"... "She always made sure to say, 'I love you,' when we said good-bye..." She was the kind of lady you who would totally send you a rainbow, with a soundtrack, and guide you to her memorial with time to pee when you got there.
After a reception with more laughter and sniffles - and another surprise neck rub - I was laden with leftovers and hugs from more departing relatives. It was time to go see as many old friends as I could wrangle into one day. I had one definitive destination - Griffith Observatory - with an assortment of others I was going to see if I could work in.
I picked up one friend - "I have cake in the back, if you want some!" - and we successfully made it to an art installation in Hollywood. One wall of the installation had to be propped up around the rest of the room as they had unexpected leaking from my Oregon-born deluge.
We had hot chocolates in a coffeeshop at the corner of Cahuenga and Sunset Blvd, looking across the street at Amoeba Records and ArcLight Cinemas. I reminisced about being a manager on the opening night of The Landmark in Westwood, and how one guy had been literally frothing at the mouth while yelling at me, because he had been told we were going to be better than the ArcLight and we were "Nothing!" like the ArcLight. I've worked a lot of retail, and I can say with authority that movie theater customers are the worst I've had to deal with - especially the ones from Los Angeles.
We headed back to the car.
We passed the gallery again.
We turn around and head back towards the coffee shop.
"Where's the car?"
We found the parking spot. We did not find the car. I read the sign - the bottom sign - and it said No Parking on Sundays. I had read it through at least three times to be sure. It was Saturday. I read the sign above that one. "Zip Car" Parking Only. I read the next sign. Call 3-1-1 to get your car back. Idiot.
Never trust good parking in L.A.
The mayor's voice on the recording informed me that I needed to call back between 8a.m. and 4:45p.m. It was just past 5. At least they would be open on Sunday.
Recalculating...
I called up the other friends I was going to meet up with. "Hi, Bill - I need a rescue." I am a teenager again, and hating it. Bill is almost happy. He was going to have an easy night and see people and go the the Observatory, and he wasn't sure how to handle this recreational time. Now he was on familiar territory. We headed across the street to Amoeba Records to eat up some time.
"I'm surprised how well you're taking this. I would be screaming and cussing right now..."
"Oh, trust me - freaking out is still totally on the menu..."
Then I remembered my earlier offer. "Alas... I have no cake."
It had been so long since I'd had free time in a music store, I didn't know what to do with myself. I love music but my brain went completely blank in the face of so much opportunity. I found an audiobook by the Dalai Lama for the drive home, and the clerk kindly found me a discount in sympathy for my plight.
Our rescue took much longer - traffic and wrong turns and just L.A. being L.A. (I have never - never - had this many wrong turns in a single trip, ever). Griffith Observatory was off the agenda but there were still more friends to see. By then, however, my phone was dying and the charger was - where else? - in the rental in the impound lot. We made due with a good old Thomas Bros. Guide and found ourselves outside a horse stable. With 4% battery life, I called my friend for new directions.
"I think you're on the wrong side of Victory..."
Story of my life.
We found her at last and had a pleasant evening talking of writing, geek stuff, health stuff, driving the 5 (yes, I said "the 5" again), and disappearing mountains. I was reminded how there used to be bugs on the windshield when I drove up north as a child. And birds, and other wildlife. I remembered the low-flying aircraft spraying the fields at daybreak that morning, as I closed the air vents.
If there was some greater message from this trip, I have no idea what it was. The next day was full of more of the same craziness. I couldn't get the car out of the impound lot because I couldn't use the credit card because it doesn't have my name on it. We found an ATM but couldn't pull the money out because the bank put a hold on the account for suspicious activity. (Fyi - if you're traveling, let your bank know - apparently, there's a form online we were supposed to have filled out). Since my name is not on that account either, I called home to have my husband call the bank.
No answer.
For the next several hours - no answer.
I sat with my friends drinking coffee - at least Starbucks would take the credit card! - and as we stared at a colorful picture of Einstein across the street, I told them the Tale of Buttonwillow and how it had changed the course of my life completely... I was 18 then, on my way back to my hometown of Santa Cruz to begin my college days studying math and physics. All that Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein stuff. I thought at the time I would one day have business cards that read, "Actually, I am a rocket scientist..."
Long story short, I still have no college degree and every friend I saw that weekend I have because of getting waylaid in Buttonwillow, almost 17 years ago.
There were still many, many more twists to come on that current trip, but things were figured out (hubby had been sick all morning and wasn't checking his phone) and I made it home, just a day later than I had originally planned. (I spent another night in the parking lot in Santa Nella). I did finally have my freak out - a couple in fact - full on panic attacks like I haven't had in a while. But things are finally coming back together. And, bots take note, Out Days have shifted to Sundays and Mondays in this whole process.
I'm still wondering what it all meant. That lottery ticket I picked up sure wasn't the great cosmic payoff... I knew I needed to go - I hate southern California and I had been feeling unreasonably nostalgic for it. I thought this would resolve that. I'm still glad I went, but I feel like the path ahead is no clearer. I will have to trust that, as with Buttonwillow, there are now experiences in my life that will change the course of my future... and I will only be able to see their origins in the rearview on the path to come.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
I don't believe in an interventionist god.
Home again, home again.
Sleepytime Sinus Soother Tea
Dagoba New Moon Chocolate Wafer
(even though I'm saying it "duh-gobuh" aloud, I will always think Yoda in my head)
Tonight's soundtrack provided by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (thanks, for the title)...
I don't believe in god. Not in particular. But I don't believe that there is no god. I'm agnostic - I stop at, "I dunno." But if - if - there is a god, I don't believe he/she/it/they will ever intervene for or against you if you ask them hard enough.
No matter how many prayers you whisper or shout, no matter how pious, how charitable, how flawless, how penitent... god won't step in for you. God is not going to stop that bullet. God is not going to help you win the lottery. God is not going to pick your team to win whilst bitch-slapping your rivals. It doesn't work that way. It can't. Because if intervening is on the table, and god doesn't step in, then god is the Universe's biggest bastard.
After the Sandyhook shooting, I saw this meme start up, even on some of my sweetest friends' pages, claiming that it was the godlessness of today's society, and the absence of prayer in school in particular, that allowed this horrific tragedy to take place. All I could think at the time was that if I was one of those parents who had lost their child, and someone said that in front of me, I don't know how I would be able to stop myself from slamming that person's face into the nearest solid object. Repeatedly.
Think of what you're saying... God could have stepped in? He could have spared the lives of those little children, who were barely older than my little babies are now. But, no, what mattered more was... what? More divine "Likes"? These children deserved to die for other people's lack of conviction? That was the righteous divine action in this case - to let them die? Why? Because not enough of us clapped our hands and shouted that we really do believe in fairies, I mean, god?
This country is overwhelmingly Christian (I am obviously turning my criticism more directly in the Mike Huckabee direction, here), far more than a simple majority. What kind of numbers do we need to put up? And how, exactly?
As I said, I'm agnostic. Just how am I supposed to appease this vain bastard so that he'll see fit to not let 6 and 7 year-olds be literally torn apart by bullets? How? You can't force me, or anyone, to believe in something. Or would he rather I mouth words I don't feel and I don't believe just to "allow" him to put the gunman's hand down? I do believe I read something about not bearing false witness...
If god is willing to intervene, choosing to do so when it suits him, then think of the awful stuff he allows to happen. Holocausts and wars, ethnic cleansings, pandemics and debilitating diseases. And then there's the really, truly awful stuff I can hardly type... The Game of Thrones stuff that, minus the dragons and the White Walkers, really does happen around this world every day. There is no place or person that is inherently safe, sacred. Remember, god has been letting priests rape children by the thousands for centuries. If he could prevent any of them, why would he let a single one happen? What child, what pious little choir boy, deserves that?
If god doesn't intervene in his own house, why would anyone think he would step foot in a schoolhouse?
As an agnostic, that's not a god I have much incentive to believe in. That kind of god is so repellant to my psyche, I just refuse to believe that he.../she/it/they... could exist. But I said already that I don't believe there is no god... Just no god like that.
A Creator does not necessarily mean a Controller. It is possible that there exists - or existed - a god - or several gods - that brought the Universe into being. But after that? Was the Universe just set into motion and left without any further great galactic guiding hand? Or is there still some cosmic consciousness aware of everything that continues to pass? I don't know. How am I supposed to know without some kind of divine-intuitive epiphany? I can only say that if some all-knowing, ever-present deity is out there, it is possible that it has the power to intervene but has chosen long ago not to - ever. Perhaps our choice is absolute: free will or nothing. And perhaps, it has never been able to change anything we do. Is a god still a god if it isn't all-powerful?
Whatever the answers are, god still could have been present in that schoolhouse that horrible day. He/she/it/they... could have been in the heart of the teacher sheltering a frightened child in his last moments of life, so he could know love could still exist... God could have been throughout all the halls and classrooms in Sandyhook Elementary, giving comfort to those who could feel it, in the face of the greatest horror...
And maybe god doesn't will the other team to lose, but maybe the personal solace your favorite wide receiver feels in his relationship with his lord and savior gives him the strength that carries him to the end zone, oh so fleetly...
Sleepytime Sinus Soother Tea
Dagoba New Moon Chocolate Wafer
(even though I'm saying it "duh-gobuh" aloud, I will always think Yoda in my head)
Tonight's soundtrack provided by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (thanks, for the title)...
I don't believe in god. Not in particular. But I don't believe that there is no god. I'm agnostic - I stop at, "I dunno." But if - if - there is a god, I don't believe he/she/it/they will ever intervene for or against you if you ask them hard enough.
No matter how many prayers you whisper or shout, no matter how pious, how charitable, how flawless, how penitent... god won't step in for you. God is not going to stop that bullet. God is not going to help you win the lottery. God is not going to pick your team to win whilst bitch-slapping your rivals. It doesn't work that way. It can't. Because if intervening is on the table, and god doesn't step in, then god is the Universe's biggest bastard.
After the Sandyhook shooting, I saw this meme start up, even on some of my sweetest friends' pages, claiming that it was the godlessness of today's society, and the absence of prayer in school in particular, that allowed this horrific tragedy to take place. All I could think at the time was that if I was one of those parents who had lost their child, and someone said that in front of me, I don't know how I would be able to stop myself from slamming that person's face into the nearest solid object. Repeatedly.
Think of what you're saying... God could have stepped in? He could have spared the lives of those little children, who were barely older than my little babies are now. But, no, what mattered more was... what? More divine "Likes"? These children deserved to die for other people's lack of conviction? That was the righteous divine action in this case - to let them die? Why? Because not enough of us clapped our hands and shouted that we really do believe in fairies, I mean, god?
This country is overwhelmingly Christian (I am obviously turning my criticism more directly in the Mike Huckabee direction, here), far more than a simple majority. What kind of numbers do we need to put up? And how, exactly?
As I said, I'm agnostic. Just how am I supposed to appease this vain bastard so that he'll see fit to not let 6 and 7 year-olds be literally torn apart by bullets? How? You can't force me, or anyone, to believe in something. Or would he rather I mouth words I don't feel and I don't believe just to "allow" him to put the gunman's hand down? I do believe I read something about not bearing false witness...
If god is willing to intervene, choosing to do so when it suits him, then think of the awful stuff he allows to happen. Holocausts and wars, ethnic cleansings, pandemics and debilitating diseases. And then there's the really, truly awful stuff I can hardly type... The Game of Thrones stuff that, minus the dragons and the White Walkers, really does happen around this world every day. There is no place or person that is inherently safe, sacred. Remember, god has been letting priests rape children by the thousands for centuries. If he could prevent any of them, why would he let a single one happen? What child, what pious little choir boy, deserves that?
If god doesn't intervene in his own house, why would anyone think he would step foot in a schoolhouse?
As an agnostic, that's not a god I have much incentive to believe in. That kind of god is so repellant to my psyche, I just refuse to believe that he.../she/it/they... could exist. But I said already that I don't believe there is no god... Just no god like that.
A Creator does not necessarily mean a Controller. It is possible that there exists - or existed - a god - or several gods - that brought the Universe into being. But after that? Was the Universe just set into motion and left without any further great galactic guiding hand? Or is there still some cosmic consciousness aware of everything that continues to pass? I don't know. How am I supposed to know without some kind of divine-intuitive epiphany? I can only say that if some all-knowing, ever-present deity is out there, it is possible that it has the power to intervene but has chosen long ago not to - ever. Perhaps our choice is absolute: free will or nothing. And perhaps, it has never been able to change anything we do. Is a god still a god if it isn't all-powerful?
Whatever the answers are, god still could have been present in that schoolhouse that horrible day. He/she/it/they... could have been in the heart of the teacher sheltering a frightened child in his last moments of life, so he could know love could still exist... God could have been throughout all the halls and classrooms in Sandyhook Elementary, giving comfort to those who could feel it, in the face of the greatest horror...
And maybe god doesn't will the other team to lose, but maybe the personal solace your favorite wide receiver feels in his relationship with his lord and savior gives him the strength that carries him to the end zone, oh so fleetly...
Sunday, February 16, 2014
You don't have to take it anymore.
The Couch
Cinnamon Sugar Kettlecorn
Some kind of tea if I can persuade my sweet, wonderful, considerate partner to make me some... And good old Sleepytime, it is!
This going to be more rushed and more random than my usual stream-of-consciousness blogs.
There's another racially-charged, "self-defense" trial that was just decided by a jury. Mostly decided, I should say. I just finished reading some of the details of the verdict and an overview of the incident. It started with a confrontation. Old white guy v. young black punks, re: loud music. It ends with the white guy firing off 10 shots and one black kid dead.
Was it self-defense? Was there a weapon that the other kids in the car disposed of? Did one of the kids get out of the vehicle, as the defendant claims? Did the defendant return to the car with the intent of killing at least one of the kids in it?
The jury decided on the lesser charges of the trial - guilty - and it will cost the defendant at least the next 60 years of his life. Basically, the long slow death of incarceration. But the jury could not say whether or not they believed it was outright death by intention - murder.
It struck me, as I was reading this, how the defendant - the man who unarguably shot at and killed a younger man, just 17 - he decided to turn himself in. It reminded my of how George Zimmerman never denied killing Trayvon Martin, and how he "fully cooperated" with the police investigation. Clearly, both of these men felt they had every right to do what they did, and no fear of any repercussions. Somehow they each felt entitled to engage in a hostile confrontation with a stranger and then kill that stranger when the conflict was not otherwise resolved.
Aside from the other awful, troubling aspects of this trial, it illuminates how terrible we are as a society at conflict resolution.
Gurus and fad psychologists have have been trying to tell us how to deal with our emotions for millennia. Despite that, we are not very far along. We are, collectively, vastly immature. Part of the problem is finding the right words that make it click for each individual. For me, advice like, "Don't let it get to you," has never stopped it from getting to me. Then this story - yet another story or confrontation turned to tragedy - brought something to my mind that made it all click.
Imagine a man or woman arguing with someone they may have never met before. Their adversary is shouting, throwing all kinds of unfair insults, showing the worst kind of disrespect. Imagine that first man or woman rising to their feet with the declaration, "I don't have to take this anymore!" The trick is... no, you don't have to take it anymore.
Just because someone is behaving disrespectfully to you, that in no way changes whether or not you deserve respect. Nothing they are doing or saying is you, and none of it can change who you are. It's their actions, their behavior, on display. It has nothing to do with you. Imagine all that vitriol as a giant wave of bull pucky raging your way - but it can't touch you. It breaks around you on a sphere of your own self-awareness, certain that no one can really disrespect you - only you can.
Think Moses. Think X-Men. Whatever helps you visualize it.
Just don't take it in. It's not yours. So some kids are playing their music too loud and they are doing what you have asked them to. So what? You can't be good, considerate people for them. That's on them. It doesn't make you weak to be mistreated. The abuser is the weak one for living as a "lower" human being. For you to be the higher human (stop giggling, Beavis), you have to leave their lowness outside of you.
Respect is about how you behave, not how you are treated. To think that your worth, in any way, is dependent on other people's behavior, takes all your power away and gives it to others. You have no control over anyone else. Waiting for other people to treat you nicely, to like you, will only make you vulnerable and insecure. Stressed-out. Trigger-happy.
So you do what you can to set things right - speak your peace, defend yourself, body, mind, and spirit. Call on others to come to your aid, if you need to. Just make a noise complaint and be done with it. Or, turn the music down and shrug off that cranky old person.
There are so many other ways to say it... just let it go.
Cinnamon Sugar Kettlecorn
Some kind of tea if I can persuade my sweet, wonderful, considerate partner to make me some... And good old Sleepytime, it is!
This going to be more rushed and more random than my usual stream-of-consciousness blogs.
There's another racially-charged, "self-defense" trial that was just decided by a jury. Mostly decided, I should say. I just finished reading some of the details of the verdict and an overview of the incident. It started with a confrontation. Old white guy v. young black punks, re: loud music. It ends with the white guy firing off 10 shots and one black kid dead.
Was it self-defense? Was there a weapon that the other kids in the car disposed of? Did one of the kids get out of the vehicle, as the defendant claims? Did the defendant return to the car with the intent of killing at least one of the kids in it?
The jury decided on the lesser charges of the trial - guilty - and it will cost the defendant at least the next 60 years of his life. Basically, the long slow death of incarceration. But the jury could not say whether or not they believed it was outright death by intention - murder.
It struck me, as I was reading this, how the defendant - the man who unarguably shot at and killed a younger man, just 17 - he decided to turn himself in. It reminded my of how George Zimmerman never denied killing Trayvon Martin, and how he "fully cooperated" with the police investigation. Clearly, both of these men felt they had every right to do what they did, and no fear of any repercussions. Somehow they each felt entitled to engage in a hostile confrontation with a stranger and then kill that stranger when the conflict was not otherwise resolved.
Aside from the other awful, troubling aspects of this trial, it illuminates how terrible we are as a society at conflict resolution.
Gurus and fad psychologists have have been trying to tell us how to deal with our emotions for millennia. Despite that, we are not very far along. We are, collectively, vastly immature. Part of the problem is finding the right words that make it click for each individual. For me, advice like, "Don't let it get to you," has never stopped it from getting to me. Then this story - yet another story or confrontation turned to tragedy - brought something to my mind that made it all click.
Imagine a man or woman arguing with someone they may have never met before. Their adversary is shouting, throwing all kinds of unfair insults, showing the worst kind of disrespect. Imagine that first man or woman rising to their feet with the declaration, "I don't have to take this anymore!" The trick is... no, you don't have to take it anymore.
Just because someone is behaving disrespectfully to you, that in no way changes whether or not you deserve respect. Nothing they are doing or saying is you, and none of it can change who you are. It's their actions, their behavior, on display. It has nothing to do with you. Imagine all that vitriol as a giant wave of bull pucky raging your way - but it can't touch you. It breaks around you on a sphere of your own self-awareness, certain that no one can really disrespect you - only you can.
Think Moses. Think X-Men. Whatever helps you visualize it.
Just don't take it in. It's not yours. So some kids are playing their music too loud and they are doing what you have asked them to. So what? You can't be good, considerate people for them. That's on them. It doesn't make you weak to be mistreated. The abuser is the weak one for living as a "lower" human being. For you to be the higher human (stop giggling, Beavis), you have to leave their lowness outside of you.
Respect is about how you behave, not how you are treated. To think that your worth, in any way, is dependent on other people's behavior, takes all your power away and gives it to others. You have no control over anyone else. Waiting for other people to treat you nicely, to like you, will only make you vulnerable and insecure. Stressed-out. Trigger-happy.
So you do what you can to set things right - speak your peace, defend yourself, body, mind, and spirit. Call on others to come to your aid, if you need to. Just make a noise complaint and be done with it. Or, turn the music down and shrug off that cranky old person.
There are so many other ways to say it... just let it go.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)