I respond to Kinsi’s post: I can still be Unitarian and love facebook, starbucks, and birthday princesses
With apologies to Meg Ryan:
"Yes, YES, YES, YES!!!"
Speak it!
"If our kids can see how they can find spirituality in Dance Dance Revolution ..."
And again, YES! I know that there are some UUs who are quite happy with their all organic co-op, "we keep a tv in the closet in case of emergencies," "I don't wear labels" lifestyles ... but where they see a moral lifestyle, others see as "inessential weirdness." That doesn't mean that they should change, but this assumption that their lifestyle is The Way and The Truth will keep us small.
(Great article about inessential weirdness)
I will blushingly admit that one of the big spiritual breakthroughs I experienced was prompted by ... a Rick Astley song. (No, not “Never Gonna Give You Up.” I was not rickrolled.)
Meaning can be found in all kinds of places. It does not reside exclusively on the mountaintop, surrounded by nature and wide blue sky. Tish-tosh, who couldn’t find meaning there? But I don’t live on the mountaintop. I live down in the suburbs, and I think the Internet is a force that can pull together people like nothing else before; having “Dora the Explorer” DVDs and a portable DVD player have been lifesavers this week, and some of my favorite family memories have been us eating pizza in the living room, watching a movie or even American Idol.
In the summer, Good Lord Willin’, we’ll go back up to the cabin we stayed in last summer, no tv or internet, where we’ll read books, go fishing, gaze at the stars and play “Poohsticks.” And I’ll find profound meaning there.
Rather than encouraging people to leave the current mainstream world, why don’t we give them tools to find meaning in that world? To make mindful, meaningful choices. Some will find great meaning in avoiding Starbucks. Others, like my sweet baboo, will get up early Monday morning and run across the street to the Starbucks opposite the hospital and buy someone a Venti Peppermint Mocha to give their beloved a little bit of happiness, before leaving to work in the corporate world of computers and systems.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Center of the Village
Right now, I am still insulated by ignorance. In the next few days, I will have either the greatest joy, or some of the lowest despair. Or, if the nodule is malignant, the "blister" is not, but the nodule is Wilms' tumor with favorable histology, a blend of the two.
I never say that "everything happens for a reason" anymore, and cannot conceive that I ever will again. But neither can I flat out say that coincidences are just coincidences, totally random.
The night before LW's scans ... when I had no suspicion of what we might be thrust into again -- I happened upon Rev. Marlin Lavanhar's sermon, Finding Our Song. Jess had put it up about a year ago on her fabulous Best of UU site.
His words have continued to echo in my head, as he spoke of the dichotomy of being utterly decimated by the grief, but being put in the "center of the village" so that others could help them.
Thank you for putting us in the center of the village. Your prayers, your notes, your love, to someone whom most of you have never even met, have meant so much.
I've written before about my realization about God ... let me hasten to add, this is just my realization, I do not hold it to be truth for anyone besides myself ... in my realization, I understood that God did not cause or control LW's cancer. "But when you grieved, I grieved," said The Universe.
And you are proof of that, for me.
I never say that "everything happens for a reason" anymore, and cannot conceive that I ever will again. But neither can I flat out say that coincidences are just coincidences, totally random.
The night before LW's scans ... when I had no suspicion of what we might be thrust into again -- I happened upon Rev. Marlin Lavanhar's sermon, Finding Our Song. Jess had put it up about a year ago on her fabulous Best of UU site.
His words have continued to echo in my head, as he spoke of the dichotomy of being utterly decimated by the grief, but being put in the "center of the village" so that others could help them.
Thank you for putting us in the center of the village. Your prayers, your notes, your love, to someone whom most of you have never even met, have meant so much.
I've written before about my realization about God ... let me hasten to add, this is just my realization, I do not hold it to be truth for anyone besides myself ... in my realization, I understood that God did not cause or control LW's cancer. "But when you grieved, I grieved," said The Universe.
And you are proof of that, for me.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Completely Random Bits
* I think that all top hospital executives should have to take a shower in a patient bathroom.
* LW is doing well -- the anesthesia seems out of her system. She watched a whole movie this morning and even talked a little bit.
* Everything is hinging on her passing gas. Once she passes gas, she can have a little juice. After the juice stays down, some food. After the food stays down, they can remove her epidural. After the epidural comes out, they can remove the catheter. After the catheter, the kidney drain. But everything is waiting on ... a fart.
* How do you explain to an almost three year old why this is happening? It's not like I can say, "Remember how you felt bad? We came here to make you better." She felt fine and was running around like a maniac the day before we came to the hospital. I'm trying to talk her through this, but I don't know if it's making any sense to her.
* I'm worried about ... church. We like to say, Oh, Don't Worry About That. You just put your attention on your family. But there isn't some magic that we can swirl around and put everthing else on "Freeze." I still have a term paper to write and I'm very concerned that the work I've put into Worship might backslide. Not in terms of the committee -- they're great. But in terms of getting speakers. The DRE-BFF is at a conference right now. She has my schedule and has been charged with getting some great speakers into the pulpit. Our congregation is on this upswing in energy and we *need* dynamic preachers in the pulpit to keep it going. Momentum, momentum ...
* And of course I'm worried about LW. My brother works for a Prominent Cancer Hospital and I think that he talked to every single doctor there yesterday about this "blood blister thing." No one had ever heard/seen of anything like that.
If it winds up being malignant, then they have to treat for tumor spillage. The only way to do that is with radiation. In addition to the risks that radiation brings -- other cancers, infertility, etc. -- it will mean that we can't do the chemo that is planned, because one doesn't combine well with radiation.
Oh the mind ... race, race, race ...
You can think that you've gotten to a certain level of philosophy, only to find yourself caught off-guard, realizing that you still have little pockets of unhelpful-belief that you thought you were done with. Your mind wanders and you find yourself thinking, "Well, I have all these things that I'm planning, things that could really have an effect on making the world a little bit better place, but I can't do them if I have to drop everything and focus on cancer, so surely God will take that into consideration ..."
And then you snap your head up and say, Whaaaat? But I don't believe that. I don't believe that God is controlling whether or now LW has cancer ...
Little pockets. Kind of like tumor spillage, you just don't know where those thoughts might be hiding ...
Friday, April 25, 2008
How to Kill Your Daddy
Okay, so you've had major surgery, you feel like a truck ran over you, people keep coming in and messing with you, you're in and out of consciousness, you keep throwing up, and you're only two years old!
So then, more people come in to take a chest Xray, which means you have to lie flat and be moved this way and that and it all really, really sucks ...
And then, because Mom has been assuring you that they're just going to take a picture of your chest, "no owies" -- when you hear the machine snap, you do what you always do when someone takes your picture. You smile.
(A really pitiful in all its bravery smile.)
And your dad has a look on his face that betrays that what he really, really wants to do is go crawl under the sink and bawl. Because he's strong and steadfast, but the no-fail kryptonite is your smile.
But he doesn't. He just smiles back at you and tucks your covers in.
So then, more people come in to take a chest Xray, which means you have to lie flat and be moved this way and that and it all really, really sucks ...
And then, because Mom has been assuring you that they're just going to take a picture of your chest, "no owies" -- when you hear the machine snap, you do what you always do when someone takes your picture. You smile.
(A really pitiful in all its bravery smile.)
And your dad has a look on his face that betrays that what he really, really wants to do is go crawl under the sink and bawl. Because he's strong and steadfast, but the no-fail kryptonite is your smile.
But he doesn't. He just smiles back at you and tucks your covers in.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
We're not in ICU
Okay, that's the good news.
"We've never seen this before," is not something you want to hear from your surgeon, especially when it's backed up by your oncologist.
Surgery today, delayed by several hours, but it was for a liver transplant, so hey, Me No Bitch about that. They removed the nodule -- still don't know whether it's tumor or nephrogenic rest.
And ...
And there was a large "patch" near it, that looked like a blood blister, according to the surgeon. They couldn't just remove it, as they would have had to just remove the whole kidney. So ... they surrounded it with sponges, removed the top, and captured the liquid inside for pathology. Underneath, it looked like clean, healthy kidney. We're holding on to that.
If it's tumor, then that means tumor spillage, so we'll have to do radiation.
So now we have two areas to worry about. Two different pathologies to be done.
I'm not trying to be hopeful. It does hurt more to get your hopes up, then have them dashed to bits upon the sharp rocks.
I'm not trying to not be hopeful. There's no reason to grieve and moan before we know what's what.
I'm just trying to be. Just trying to stay in neutral.
Meanwhile, I'm looking at Little Warrior. She seems to be resting peacefully. I have my ipod with a speaker near her, playing a loop of a Brandenburg concerto that she likes to sleep to for some odd reason. Pretty up-tempo for sleeping music, but hey, this is Wild Child. She's breathing room air, no canula or anything. She's Octopus Girl, with a catheter, monitors, kidney drain. And an epidural, so she doesn't seem to be in any pain.
I have to admit, that I get occasional irrational flashes of anger. As I wrote the sentence about the epidural, I flashed back to a recent Ethics class in which a young classmate of mine did a presentation about euthanasia. In her presentation, she talked about how suffering brings you closer to God, and so you should be willing to suffer, even to the point of not turning to pain relief.
I wish she were here. For just a moment.
The anger fades. The music seeps back into my consciousness. The Husband, feeling edgy, has gone in search of a milkshake, his comfort drug of choice.
But I'm not cold, I'm not wet, and I'm not hungry,
So, classify these as good times.
I'm not quite ready to classify this as a good time. But it's all relative. If the spots they removed turn out to be a big Something, I'll look back on this teeny period of innocence as good times, a brief honeymoon from upcoming reality.
If the spots turn out to be a big Nothing, I'll look back on this period as one of anxiety and stress. Not memories of good times.
I'd prefer the latter. I have tons of memories of good times. This doesn't need to be one.
"We've never seen this before," is not something you want to hear from your surgeon, especially when it's backed up by your oncologist.
Surgery today, delayed by several hours, but it was for a liver transplant, so hey, Me No Bitch about that. They removed the nodule -- still don't know whether it's tumor or nephrogenic rest.
And ...
And there was a large "patch" near it, that looked like a blood blister, according to the surgeon. They couldn't just remove it, as they would have had to just remove the whole kidney. So ... they surrounded it with sponges, removed the top, and captured the liquid inside for pathology. Underneath, it looked like clean, healthy kidney. We're holding on to that.
If it's tumor, then that means tumor spillage, so we'll have to do radiation.
So now we have two areas to worry about. Two different pathologies to be done.
I'm not trying to be hopeful. It does hurt more to get your hopes up, then have them dashed to bits upon the sharp rocks.
I'm not trying to not be hopeful. There's no reason to grieve and moan before we know what's what.
I'm just trying to be. Just trying to stay in neutral.
Meanwhile, I'm looking at Little Warrior. She seems to be resting peacefully. I have my ipod with a speaker near her, playing a loop of a Brandenburg concerto that she likes to sleep to for some odd reason. Pretty up-tempo for sleeping music, but hey, this is Wild Child. She's breathing room air, no canula or anything. She's Octopus Girl, with a catheter, monitors, kidney drain. And an epidural, so she doesn't seem to be in any pain.
I have to admit, that I get occasional irrational flashes of anger. As I wrote the sentence about the epidural, I flashed back to a recent Ethics class in which a young classmate of mine did a presentation about euthanasia. In her presentation, she talked about how suffering brings you closer to God, and so you should be willing to suffer, even to the point of not turning to pain relief.
I wish she were here. For just a moment.
The anger fades. The music seeps back into my consciousness. The Husband, feeling edgy, has gone in search of a milkshake, his comfort drug of choice.
But I'm not cold, I'm not wet, and I'm not hungry,
So, classify these as good times.
I'm not quite ready to classify this as a good time. But it's all relative. If the spots they removed turn out to be a big Something, I'll look back on this teeny period of innocence as good times, a brief honeymoon from upcoming reality.
If the spots turn out to be a big Nothing, I'll look back on this period as one of anxiety and stress. Not memories of good times.
I'd prefer the latter. I have tons of memories of good times. This doesn't need to be one.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Night before
Thank you, all of you, for your prayers and energy. I will carry them with me. At the end of our church service, we make a circle around the sanctuary and all hold hands. That's what this feels like ... I feel like I have a "circle" of friends around the country, all linked.
For the most part, I'm okay. AdventureGirl is here, my dear sister-in-law. Last Fall, she scaled mountains in Ecuador. This week, she takes care of Team Lizard Children. Which will she decide was more difficult?
I'm up and down. Mostly up, because Little Warrior seems fine. Stinker bell, even. But tonight, when I put her to bed, I cried a few tears. Just because it will be a few nights before I see her sleeping that peacefully again. It will be with an oxygen canula and iv and pain. And I just got so damn mad, you know? That this pink-cheeked ball of fun is going to have to go through that. Again.
The Husband and I both think that it's going to be tumor. Is it based on something, or is it trying to protect ourselves? I don't know. We keep repeating to each other ... "and that's okay. We've done it before."
But we're scared. No doubt about that. There is no accepted protocol for relapsed Wilms'. There's a study all ready, but they don't have enough money. Cure Search has an account set up, but we're not there yet. Still more money that has to be raised. I can't help but think about the old thing about the military needing to have a bake sale ...
Anyway, there's not a standard protocol. So you just try something. What you've done before, if it worked, or what someone else has done, if it hasn't.
Okay ... can't think about that now.
Now ... I need to go lay out my clothes and charge my cell phone and go to bed.
For the most part, I'm okay. AdventureGirl is here, my dear sister-in-law. Last Fall, she scaled mountains in Ecuador. This week, she takes care of Team Lizard Children. Which will she decide was more difficult?
I'm up and down. Mostly up, because Little Warrior seems fine. Stinker bell, even. But tonight, when I put her to bed, I cried a few tears. Just because it will be a few nights before I see her sleeping that peacefully again. It will be with an oxygen canula and iv and pain. And I just got so damn mad, you know? That this pink-cheeked ball of fun is going to have to go through that. Again.
The Husband and I both think that it's going to be tumor. Is it based on something, or is it trying to protect ourselves? I don't know. We keep repeating to each other ... "and that's okay. We've done it before."
But we're scared. No doubt about that. There is no accepted protocol for relapsed Wilms'. There's a study all ready, but they don't have enough money. Cure Search has an account set up, but we're not there yet. Still more money that has to be raised. I can't help but think about the old thing about the military needing to have a bake sale ...
Anyway, there's not a standard protocol. So you just try something. What you've done before, if it worked, or what someone else has done, if it hasn't.
Okay ... can't think about that now.
Now ... I need to go lay out my clothes and charge my cell phone and go to bed.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Right Now
Right now
I have a big to do list
But life still operates in normal
LW will go with me to
The bulk store and the everything store and the grocery store
We will fill the pantry
For while we are gone
Right now
I am drinking coffee
From my kitchen
Just the way I like it
Right now
She is sprawled on the floor
Watching "Diego"
Just the way she likes it
Right now
The house is a wreck
And there's a million other things I should be doing
And things are just normal
She drops her banana on the floor
Picks it up and eats it
And that's fine with me
Right now
Nothing is changed
But it might be
And I know what it's like
To live in Not Normal
I've got two more days
Of living in normal
Right now
I'm Here
In Every Moment
I have a big to do list
But life still operates in normal
LW will go with me to
The bulk store and the everything store and the grocery store
We will fill the pantry
For while we are gone
Right now
I am drinking coffee
From my kitchen
Just the way I like it
Right now
She is sprawled on the floor
Watching "Diego"
Just the way she likes it
Right now
The house is a wreck
And there's a million other things I should be doing
And things are just normal
She drops her banana on the floor
Picks it up and eats it
And that's fine with me
Right now
Nothing is changed
But it might be
And I know what it's like
To live in Not Normal
I've got two more days
Of living in normal
Right now
I'm Here
In Every Moment
Monday, April 21, 2008
Frabjous Day!
No, no, we didn't get a phone call that Oops, it was all just a mix up and actually there's no mysterious spot and so rather than the hospital you can just all go out for pizza ...
But on a smaller scale, velly nice.
Beautiful, by Elvis Costello. The BFF-DRE emailed me a link. It's available!
I have previously blogged my discontent with hearing songs in movies/tv shows that are not available for purchase and this was one.
Bwahahaha. Mine, mine, mine. (And you can hear it free, on the above link.)
Now, if Allison Krauss and Dwight Yoakum will just make a recording of their version of If I Were a Carpenter.
But on a smaller scale, velly nice.
Beautiful, by Elvis Costello. The BFF-DRE emailed me a link. It's available!
I have previously blogged my discontent with hearing songs in movies/tv shows that are not available for purchase and this was one.
Bwahahaha. Mine, mine, mine. (And you can hear it free, on the above link.)
Now, if Allison Krauss and Dwight Yoakum will just make a recording of their version of If I Were a Carpenter.
Surgery Thursday
Surgery will be this Thursday. We get there at 11:30, they'll prep and ready her, and surgery is planned to begin at 1:30. The two surgeons who did such "mahhvelous" work on her last time will be her surgeons this time, too. We may even have the complete doctor team as last time, because the main surgeon's assistant requested the same anesthesia doctor. (Random lesson learned ... anesthesia isn't always a simple mathematical thing. Sometimes, especially with little ones, you need a clever, creative anesthesiologist. Which this doctor is. Plus she's really sweet.)
So, there we go. 1:30 central time, light a candle, offer up a prayer, send energy or heck, eat a slice of pizza and think of us.
So, there we go. 1:30 central time, light a candle, offer up a prayer, send energy or heck, eat a slice of pizza and think of us.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Pictorial "Relay for Life" by Little Warrior
Last night, my family went to the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. Mom said it was to celebrate ME, because I'm a survivor.
My big sister carried me on her back for a little while. As usual, they didn't have any t-shirts my size. I guess they think kids don't get cancer. (Mom's note: The benediction, of course, ended with "in Jesus's name". Because apparently only Christians get cancer.)
The first lap in the relay was just for cancer survivors. Mom walked with me, though. Dad said it was okay, because Mom survived my cancer, too.
As we walked around the track, people stood and clapped for all of us wearing the "Survivor" shirts. The track has this cool red dirt and little rocks on it, so I kept trying to stop to play with it. Mom wouldn't let me stop. Meanie. But she promised I could play with the dirt at the end.
Eventually, Mom gave up and just carried me. As people clapped for me, I waved. I think Mom didn't understand what was going on, because she was crying a lot of the time. See, if she'd just stopped and played in that cool red dirt, I just know she would have felt better.
Don't worry, Mom. I beat cancer's butt when I was just a baby, and if I need to, I'll do it again!
My big sister carried me on her back for a little while. As usual, they didn't have any t-shirts my size. I guess they think kids don't get cancer. (Mom's note: The benediction, of course, ended with "in Jesus's name". Because apparently only Christians get cancer.)
The first lap in the relay was just for cancer survivors. Mom walked with me, though. Dad said it was okay, because Mom survived my cancer, too.As we walked around the track, people stood and clapped for all of us wearing the "Survivor" shirts. The track has this cool red dirt and little rocks on it, so I kept trying to stop to play with it. Mom wouldn't let me stop. Meanie. But she promised I could play with the dirt at the end.
Eventually, Mom gave up and just carried me. As people clapped for me, I waved. I think Mom didn't understand what was going on, because she was crying a lot of the time. See, if she'd just stopped and played in that cool red dirt, I just know she would have felt better.Don't worry, Mom. I beat cancer's butt when I was just a baby, and if I need to, I'll do it again!
Jeremiah Wright and Bill Moyers
We'll probably be in the hospital, but my tivo is all set. Next Friday, Bill Moyers will have Rev. Jeremiah Wright on his program. Can't wait.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Shots, breastfeeding, feeling groovy, losing weight ...
And everything else that's going on.
"How are YOU doing," asks a friend.
I'm doing fine! I assure her. Then I add, Except for when I'm not.
The latter is rare, I'm happy to say. LW looks fine, acts fine ... well, truth be told, she occasionally acts like a little toot, because she's 2 and that's what she is. But she's also funny and fat and energetic. So ... cognitive dissonance.
She was weaned about a month ago. I have slowly started nursing her again, see if I can get my supply again. After more than a decade of nursing, it shouldn't be a problem, says DRE-BFF, who is also an LLL. (La Leche League Leader.) Not that she'll get much nutrition that way, but since there are adult cancer patients who are drinking breast milk in the hope that it'll help, it seems silly for me not to. I don't know if it was the breast milk, but last time around, her counts never dropped, an amazing thing. Don't judge me.
I sit her down and look at her seriously. It's not that you're not a big girl, I explain, it's just that you'll be going to the hospital for surgery, so that's why I'm letting you nurse. Okay?
Yeah whatever, Mom. Who cares? Boobies! Yay!!!
I worry that she's like a recovered crack addict, given another hit. Will she wind up on the street, trying to score from the new mother down the street? Strung out, offering her precious teddy bear for half an ounce of breast milk?
I began the South Beach diet Monday a week ago, the day before we took her for scans. I'm still on it. Hey, it's one thing I can control. I get up this morning, and so far, I've lost 7 1/2 lbs. I find myself humming, Feeling Groovy, while making breakfast. I marvel at that. Don't judge me.
Read the online news. Am glad to see that I wasn't the only person disgusted by the questions ABC asked (or didn't ask) last night.
I'm trying to fatten LW up. Whole milk, tempting foods. Anyone know where I can buy some plumpy'nut? (Just kidding.) The other night after dinner, she wheedles, "Can I have another cookie?" I automatically say No ... then shake my head at my idiocy. Kid, you can have as many cookies as you can stuff down your gullet. Especially since your siblings have already gone to bed and can't squawk about it. Don't judge me.
Gotta get back to my school work. I'm trying to finish off all my Ethics work, so I don't have to worry about that. Have completed my term paper on capital punishment. Trying to get at least two weeks ahead for my online class.
In the midst of this all, our music chair quits. As worship chair, it seems to be falling to me. I've been communicating to our leadership that I Can't Take This On, but no one seems to be moving. This may take Strong Words.
Tonight, I take the kids to the doctor -- the three older ones need to get all their upcoming vaccinations in case LW goes on chemo. Afterwards, a trip to Toys R Us. Don't judge me.
Surgery will probably be next Thursday or Friday. We're waiting final confirmation, because our surgeon wants the kidney surgeon to help him. So it'll be the same team that operated last time. That makes me feel better.
So ... I'm fine. But just in case, I'm not wearing eye makeup. Because I don't know when "except when I'm not" will hit.
"How are YOU doing," asks a friend.
I'm doing fine! I assure her. Then I add, Except for when I'm not.
The latter is rare, I'm happy to say. LW looks fine, acts fine ... well, truth be told, she occasionally acts like a little toot, because she's 2 and that's what she is. But she's also funny and fat and energetic. So ... cognitive dissonance.
She was weaned about a month ago. I have slowly started nursing her again, see if I can get my supply again. After more than a decade of nursing, it shouldn't be a problem, says DRE-BFF, who is also an LLL. (La Leche League Leader.) Not that she'll get much nutrition that way, but since there are adult cancer patients who are drinking breast milk in the hope that it'll help, it seems silly for me not to. I don't know if it was the breast milk, but last time around, her counts never dropped, an amazing thing. Don't judge me.
I sit her down and look at her seriously. It's not that you're not a big girl, I explain, it's just that you'll be going to the hospital for surgery, so that's why I'm letting you nurse. Okay?
Yeah whatever, Mom. Who cares? Boobies! Yay!!!
I worry that she's like a recovered crack addict, given another hit. Will she wind up on the street, trying to score from the new mother down the street? Strung out, offering her precious teddy bear for half an ounce of breast milk?
I began the South Beach diet Monday a week ago, the day before we took her for scans. I'm still on it. Hey, it's one thing I can control. I get up this morning, and so far, I've lost 7 1/2 lbs. I find myself humming, Feeling Groovy, while making breakfast. I marvel at that. Don't judge me.
Read the online news. Am glad to see that I wasn't the only person disgusted by the questions ABC asked (or didn't ask) last night.
I'm trying to fatten LW up. Whole milk, tempting foods. Anyone know where I can buy some plumpy'nut? (Just kidding.) The other night after dinner, she wheedles, "Can I have another cookie?" I automatically say No ... then shake my head at my idiocy. Kid, you can have as many cookies as you can stuff down your gullet. Especially since your siblings have already gone to bed and can't squawk about it. Don't judge me.
Gotta get back to my school work. I'm trying to finish off all my Ethics work, so I don't have to worry about that. Have completed my term paper on capital punishment. Trying to get at least two weeks ahead for my online class.
In the midst of this all, our music chair quits. As worship chair, it seems to be falling to me. I've been communicating to our leadership that I Can't Take This On, but no one seems to be moving. This may take Strong Words.
Tonight, I take the kids to the doctor -- the three older ones need to get all their upcoming vaccinations in case LW goes on chemo. Afterwards, a trip to Toys R Us. Don't judge me.
Surgery will probably be next Thursday or Friday. We're waiting final confirmation, because our surgeon wants the kidney surgeon to help him. So it'll be the same team that operated last time. That makes me feel better.
So ... I'm fine. But just in case, I'm not wearing eye makeup. Because I don't know when "except when I'm not" will hit.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Oh, you Christian-Come-Lately
The Boy and I just watched the Compassion Forum with Clinton and Obama. I noted that at least three times, she emphasized that she has been a Christian since she was a little girl.
Coincidence?
Coincidence?
Job's Friends
A couple of months ago, my dad and I got into a good-natured email argument about Job. Most of the book of Job, we agree with. Our point of disagreement is about Elephaz, Zofar, and Bildad.
Those are three of Job's friends, and at first, they're great. They just come and sit with Job for a week, in silence.
But then, they open their mouths.
Dad says, they're trying to understand. This is what friends do. They sit around, and talk, discuss, trying to figure out why this is happening.
I say -- they're being asshats. Trying to find out the reason "why," sure, because like most humans, they want an assurance that it can't happen to them. It happened to Job because he's a sinner. But they're not sinners, so they're safe. (I don't know if this is still true, but back when I was in college, I remember reading that if you were a woman raped, you wouldn't want women in the jury box. Because they would be searching for something that you did wrong. Because then they could say, "I would never do that. So it'll never happen to me.)
Anyway, I contended that his friends were being asshats, pushing until Job finally loses it. Which proves, I wrote, that you can survive death, destruction and boils, but what will finally break you will be your friends being asshats.
Let me state emphatically and unequivocally that my friends are NOT asshats.
We argued back and forth. I imagine there's a little bit of truth in each of our views.
I'm not leading up to anything. No one has been an asshat to me, though I will admit to already being tired of those who are not close to me attempting to explain why we may be facing a relapse. They mean well, all of them. But I'm weary of their thoughts.
Those are three of Job's friends, and at first, they're great. They just come and sit with Job for a week, in silence.
But then, they open their mouths.
Dad says, they're trying to understand. This is what friends do. They sit around, and talk, discuss, trying to figure out why this is happening.
I say -- they're being asshats. Trying to find out the reason "why," sure, because like most humans, they want an assurance that it can't happen to them. It happened to Job because he's a sinner. But they're not sinners, so they're safe. (I don't know if this is still true, but back when I was in college, I remember reading that if you were a woman raped, you wouldn't want women in the jury box. Because they would be searching for something that you did wrong. Because then they could say, "I would never do that. So it'll never happen to me.)
Anyway, I contended that his friends were being asshats, pushing until Job finally loses it. Which proves, I wrote, that you can survive death, destruction and boils, but what will finally break you will be your friends being asshats.
Let me state emphatically and unequivocally that my friends are NOT asshats.
We argued back and forth. I imagine there's a little bit of truth in each of our views.
I'm not leading up to anything. No one has been an asshat to me, though I will admit to already being tired of those who are not close to me attempting to explain why we may be facing a relapse. They mean well, all of them. But I'm weary of their thoughts.
I'm proud this guy is my friend
The Church Where You Can't Marry
Gay Rights Church Bans Weddings
Andy refuses to take credit -- The Board decided all this without my interference, he says. But he's pretty proud of them.
But it's stressful, to be thrown into the spotlight like that. So send a little energy to their congregation.
Gay Rights Church Bans Weddings
Andy refuses to take credit -- The Board decided all this without my interference, he says. But he's pretty proud of them.
But it's stressful, to be thrown into the spotlight like that. So send a little energy to their congregation.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I think I'll cancel that interview
I have an interview Friday, an interview that was set up a month ago. It is to be interviewed by a UU minister, if you are in pursuit of UU ministry. It's the first step of many interviews.
I really thought of keeping it. I'm hungry to get the ball rolling, in terms of UUA paperwork. Get the minister interview done, the district executive one (whoops, gotta cancel that, too), go get my head shrunk at one of those career centers ...
I'm waiting on a call from LW's surgeon to schedule the surgery. Chances are good that it won't be this week. So I'll be available. Physically.
But I have to admit that I don't think it's a good idea. This minister doesn't know me. So here are my choices:
a) Do the interview and not mention that my daughter might have cancer again. Yeah right. I do not have ice water in my veins. Plus, it seems dishonest, for some reason. I mean, I'm not applying for a job. But as much as I might want to pretend that this is no big deal, it is.
b) Do the interview and do mention it ... oh, I don't think that's right, either. For one thing, depending on my mood swing of the moment, I just might start bawling if she showed any sympathy. But also, I think it puts her in a bad place. Any minister would try to give a fair assessment, but who wants to be in the position of slamming a cancer-Mom? And then there's the issue of "is this really 'me'" ... she doesn't know me. So am I acting like this because of the cancer or am I like this normally? Whatever "this" is ...
So I think I'm going to cancel. Besides, I have two classes that I want to complete my work in, a house to clean before a relative comes in to stay, and oh yeah ... time to freak out, every now and then.
I'm in a weird place. Last time, I didn't even have the chance to grab clean clothes ... went to playgroup in the morning and before night, we were in the hospital. Everything screeched to a stop.
This time, it's different. I can pack. I can notify. I can clean house and have fresh food in the refrigerator. I can continue my classwork.
So ... it kind of seems like normal life, for the moment. Except it isn't.
I think it's the right decision.
I really thought of keeping it. I'm hungry to get the ball rolling, in terms of UUA paperwork. Get the minister interview done, the district executive one (whoops, gotta cancel that, too), go get my head shrunk at one of those career centers ...
I'm waiting on a call from LW's surgeon to schedule the surgery. Chances are good that it won't be this week. So I'll be available. Physically.
But I have to admit that I don't think it's a good idea. This minister doesn't know me. So here are my choices:
a) Do the interview and not mention that my daughter might have cancer again. Yeah right. I do not have ice water in my veins. Plus, it seems dishonest, for some reason. I mean, I'm not applying for a job. But as much as I might want to pretend that this is no big deal, it is.
b) Do the interview and do mention it ... oh, I don't think that's right, either. For one thing, depending on my mood swing of the moment, I just might start bawling if she showed any sympathy. But also, I think it puts her in a bad place. Any minister would try to give a fair assessment, but who wants to be in the position of slamming a cancer-Mom? And then there's the issue of "is this really 'me'" ... she doesn't know me. So am I acting like this because of the cancer or am I like this normally? Whatever "this" is ...
So I think I'm going to cancel. Besides, I have two classes that I want to complete my work in, a house to clean before a relative comes in to stay, and oh yeah ... time to freak out, every now and then.
I'm in a weird place. Last time, I didn't even have the chance to grab clean clothes ... went to playgroup in the morning and before night, we were in the hospital. Everything screeched to a stop.
This time, it's different. I can pack. I can notify. I can clean house and have fresh food in the refrigerator. I can continue my classwork.
So ... it kind of seems like normal life, for the moment. Except it isn't.
I think it's the right decision.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Just a walk in the park
It didn't feel like denial, I tell the husband. It felt like acceptance.
We are at a park, watching the kids run around. This morning, we got up, went to church. I went in to Morning Blessings, "a quiet, reflective time for community and contemplation."
Turns out, I can handle anything but community and contemplation. The spider was caught in her own trap. Tears, tears, tears.
Oh bother.
The Husband was hugged by several other men, men who don't normally hug him. A bit weird. We had to explain to others. We tried to reassure some.
"I don't want to go to RE," said The Boy. "I don't want to talk about it." The Princess just wanted to stay by me.
So we left, early. "I know where to go," I told The Husband. There was a little park that I had driven by, before. We stopped there and the kids ran, climbed, swings, monkey bars. We sat and watched them.
"It wasn't denial," says The Husband. He says this is just how it's going to be. We'll feel fine, then we won't. Then we'll feel fine again.
Yep.
"We found a nature trail! Can we all walk it?"
Sure. We set off. "Maybe it's the trail to Narnia!" The Boy and the Princess run ahead. Bo Peep slips her hand in mine. "Think we'll find tigers on the trail?" I joke. "No," she says somberly. "Bears."
Bears are her fear. When she has bad dreams, bears are almost always to blame. She woke up one time and fussed, "Oh! Those bears just won't leave me alone!"
I can't relate. I love bears. Pooh Bear and teddy bears and Little Bear and even the Three Bears. Mine is snakes.
The Boy informs her that the chances are greater that she'll be struck by lightning, stung by a bee and in a car accident all on the same day, than be attacked by a bear when you didn't do anything wrong.
I look around for LW. She is safe, up on her daddy's shoulders. We enter the trail.
Lizards, butterflies, dragon flies. "I don't think we should go there," says Bo Peep.
It's okay. I've been here before.
We find a hidden bench. It's nice. We turn around. "Watch out for that branch," I call to The Husband. It's right at the height of LW. "I saw it," he says.
We walk back, let them play some more. It's good. It's a beautiful day, just slightly cool, blue skies. If she goes on chemo, we won't be able to do this for a while. LW goes streaking by me, headed for the swings at the far end of the park. Fearless. I start to follow her, but her big brother has spotted her and is running after her. He lifts her into the swing and gives a push.
The Husband and I figure out lunch and head for the store, for home. Tomorrow is our appointment. I have some doodle-dolls that I had put back to donate to the clinic. I thought they'd be good for cancer kids, because you can draw on them. Incisions, port, whatever.
Tomorrow, I'll present one to LW. We'll take it with us, and I'll ask her surgeon to draw on it what is going to be done, so maybe she can understand.
It's okay. I've been here before.
We are at a park, watching the kids run around. This morning, we got up, went to church. I went in to Morning Blessings, "a quiet, reflective time for community and contemplation."
Turns out, I can handle anything but community and contemplation. The spider was caught in her own trap. Tears, tears, tears.
Oh bother.
The Husband was hugged by several other men, men who don't normally hug him. A bit weird. We had to explain to others. We tried to reassure some.
"I don't want to go to RE," said The Boy. "I don't want to talk about it." The Princess just wanted to stay by me.
So we left, early. "I know where to go," I told The Husband. There was a little park that I had driven by, before. We stopped there and the kids ran, climbed, swings, monkey bars. We sat and watched them.
"It wasn't denial," says The Husband. He says this is just how it's going to be. We'll feel fine, then we won't. Then we'll feel fine again.
Yep.
"We found a nature trail! Can we all walk it?"
Sure. We set off. "Maybe it's the trail to Narnia!" The Boy and the Princess run ahead. Bo Peep slips her hand in mine. "Think we'll find tigers on the trail?" I joke. "No," she says somberly. "Bears."
Bears are her fear. When she has bad dreams, bears are almost always to blame. She woke up one time and fussed, "Oh! Those bears just won't leave me alone!"
I can't relate. I love bears. Pooh Bear and teddy bears and Little Bear and even the Three Bears. Mine is snakes.
The Boy informs her that the chances are greater that she'll be struck by lightning, stung by a bee and in a car accident all on the same day, than be attacked by a bear when you didn't do anything wrong.
I look around for LW. She is safe, up on her daddy's shoulders. We enter the trail.
Lizards, butterflies, dragon flies. "I don't think we should go there," says Bo Peep.
It's okay. I've been here before.
We find a hidden bench. It's nice. We turn around. "Watch out for that branch," I call to The Husband. It's right at the height of LW. "I saw it," he says.
We walk back, let them play some more. It's good. It's a beautiful day, just slightly cool, blue skies. If she goes on chemo, we won't be able to do this for a while. LW goes streaking by me, headed for the swings at the far end of the park. Fearless. I start to follow her, but her big brother has spotted her and is running after her. He lifts her into the swing and gives a push.
The Husband and I figure out lunch and head for the store, for home. Tomorrow is our appointment. I have some doodle-dolls that I had put back to donate to the clinic. I thought they'd be good for cancer kids, because you can draw on them. Incisions, port, whatever.
Tomorrow, I'll present one to LW. We'll take it with us, and I'll ask her surgeon to draw on it what is going to be done, so maybe she can understand.
It's okay. I've been here before.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Wallowing over
Thank you, my dear friends. I know that you have cried with me. "How can I blog about this, this time?" I asked The Husband. "Last time, it was shouting into the wilderness. But now, I know these people."
And they're in it with you, he said. And they'd want to know. Keep writing. Because someone may find it, and it might help.
I have had my wallow; my eyes are swollen. I may come back to Wallow Town occasionally, but it is Time To Move On.
The woods are lovely dark and deep. It is tempting to stay here, hugging LW, futily searching the internet for a story of someone where this Exact Same Thing happened, and it all turned out to be nothing, thinking of the what-ifs and whys and how life isn't fair.
But I have promises to keep. Intro to Lib RE homework due this morning, hymns to choose, an RE plan for the fall to draft, 2 term papers to write, speakers to schedule. Obladi oblada, life goes on.
And miles to go ...
And they're in it with you, he said. And they'd want to know. Keep writing. Because someone may find it, and it might help.
I have had my wallow; my eyes are swollen. I may come back to Wallow Town occasionally, but it is Time To Move On.
The woods are lovely dark and deep. It is tempting to stay here, hugging LW, futily searching the internet for a story of someone where this Exact Same Thing happened, and it all turned out to be nothing, thinking of the what-ifs and whys and how life isn't fair.
But I have promises to keep. Intro to Lib RE homework due this morning, hymns to choose, an RE plan for the fall to draft, 2 term papers to write, speakers to schedule. Obladi oblada, life goes on.
And miles to go ...
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Raging
You think you learned things, that first go round? Think you're on another level? Get real.
It doesn't matter. Sure, you found a new definition of God and came to peace with some things and realized some things and understand some things.
It. Doesn't. Matter.
Because here I am again, silently screaming in my head, "It's NOT FAIR!!!!"
I don't want to go back to that world!
I don't want to walk around with a 100 lb weight on my heart.
I don't want to cry every single day.
I don't want to have to try this explain this to her. Don't want to buy prizes and bribes for letting them dig around in her.
And my older three. This is changing who they are. IT IS CHANGING THE PEOPLE THEY ARE AND THE PEOPLE THEY WILL BECOME. And there's not single thing I can do about it.
Over and over again, It's Not Fair. It's Not Fair. It's Not Fair. And no matter how I try to not do it, no matter how much I know that it doesn't work like this, the universe doesn't punish a parent by giving a child cancer, there is no lesson good enough to justify cancer, still ... my thoughts race.
Is it because I was beginning to take it for granted? Because I wasn't scared enough? Because I'm not generous enough? Because I joked that if it happened again, it was God telling me not to be a minister? Is that the truth, or am I being punished for acting as if ministry were a whim, dependent on the good fortune I received?
Why can't it be me this time?
I'm not nursing a baby anymore. LW can go in daycare; she'd probably love it. The other three are in school. Let it be me this time. Let me be the one.
I
Want
To
Scream
It doesn't matter. Sure, you found a new definition of God and came to peace with some things and realized some things and understand some things.
It. Doesn't. Matter.
Because here I am again, silently screaming in my head, "It's NOT FAIR!!!!"
I don't want to go back to that world!
I don't want to walk around with a 100 lb weight on my heart.
I don't want to cry every single day.
I don't want to have to try this explain this to her. Don't want to buy prizes and bribes for letting them dig around in her.
And my older three. This is changing who they are. IT IS CHANGING THE PEOPLE THEY ARE AND THE PEOPLE THEY WILL BECOME. And there's not single thing I can do about it.
Over and over again, It's Not Fair. It's Not Fair. It's Not Fair. And no matter how I try to not do it, no matter how much I know that it doesn't work like this, the universe doesn't punish a parent by giving a child cancer, there is no lesson good enough to justify cancer, still ... my thoughts race.
Is it because I was beginning to take it for granted? Because I wasn't scared enough? Because I'm not generous enough? Because I joked that if it happened again, it was God telling me not to be a minister? Is that the truth, or am I being punished for acting as if ministry were a whim, dependent on the good fortune I received?
Why can't it be me this time?
I'm not nursing a baby anymore. LW can go in daycare; she'd probably love it. The other three are in school. Let it be me this time. Let me be the one.
I
Want
To
Scream
This Morning
This morning
I complained because I hadn't lost much weight on my new diet
This morning
I fussed at one daughter because her room wasn't clean
And another because she was whining about a bent folder
This morning
I took a shower and thought about getting a haircut
This morning
I was thrilled because we got our printer working
This morning
I drank black coffee and read the newspaper and picked up a dead roach and checked my email and thought of doing the laundry and procrastinated on some things and perused some political blogs and picked up a few bits of clutter and looked forward to seeing a friend and her mother
This Morning
Was Heaven
I complained because I hadn't lost much weight on my new diet
This morning
I fussed at one daughter because her room wasn't clean
And another because she was whining about a bent folder
This morning
I took a shower and thought about getting a haircut
This morning
I was thrilled because we got our printer working
This morning
I drank black coffee and read the newspaper and picked up a dead roach and checked my email and thought of doing the laundry and procrastinated on some things and perused some political blogs and picked up a few bits of clutter and looked forward to seeing a friend and her mother
This Morning
Was Heaven
Beast might be back
My hands are ice cold. Not sure I can type this.
Tiny spot on her right kidney. Might be tumor. Might be nephrogenic rest. Either way, they'll do surgery.
Oh God. The rage the denial the fear. I can't help sobbing and LW keeps asking "Why are you crying, Mama?"
It might be nothing. It might be nothing. It might be nothing.
Oh God. Please.
Tiny spot on her right kidney. Might be tumor. Might be nephrogenic rest. Either way, they'll do surgery.
Oh God. The rage the denial the fear. I can't help sobbing and LW keeps asking "Why are you crying, Mama?"
It might be nothing. It might be nothing. It might be nothing.
Oh God. Please.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Barebacking Cobras
Okay, whoever the little entity is, inside my brain, who is responsible for deciding the offering for my viewing pleasure after I go to sleep, I want him fired.
Same old, same old theme. Scans are tomorrow and my subconscious is fretting that I'm just not fretting enough!
A couple of nights ago, it was a giant. There was a rather stupid giant living in our house. Fairly innocuous, but we knew he could turn on us. And eat us.
Last night, it was cobras. I was sleeping kinda on my stomach, and there were two cobras stretched out on my bareback. They were just relaxing, so I wasn't in an immediate state of fear. But I was reminding myself to stay relaxed, stay calm. Don't tense up, because they were right on my back, and they would feel it. And that might startle them, and make them attack.
I'd like to order a sexy dream, please. Or a dream about bread, since I just started South Beach.
Anything but cobras and giants.
Same old, same old theme. Scans are tomorrow and my subconscious is fretting that I'm just not fretting enough!
A couple of nights ago, it was a giant. There was a rather stupid giant living in our house. Fairly innocuous, but we knew he could turn on us. And eat us.
Last night, it was cobras. I was sleeping kinda on my stomach, and there were two cobras stretched out on my bareback. They were just relaxing, so I wasn't in an immediate state of fear. But I was reminding myself to stay relaxed, stay calm. Don't tense up, because they were right on my back, and they would feel it. And that might startle them, and make them attack.
I'd like to order a sexy dream, please. Or a dream about bread, since I just started South Beach.
Anything but cobras and giants.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Friday, April 04, 2008
An old folk song ...
Simple, a little silly. And just what I needed:
Inch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground
Inch by inch, row by row Someone bless these seeds I sow
Someone warm them from below
Til the rain comes tumbling down
African-American UU Church, Pt 2
I'll admit to being offended by the idea that I've heard, phrased in different ways, that comes down to, "We'll never have integrated UU churches, because African-Americans want their 'own' church." It offends me because it seems to me to be a false dichotomy -- you can be a UU church or you can be a Black church -- you can't be both.
It makes me remember when I was a teenager, visiting a cousin of mine, who lived in a small town. Across from her house was a small African-American church. The members were outside, having some kind of a picnic, playing music. I was grooving to the beat. (Truth be told, I've been known to groove to anything, including ring tones.)
"Don't do that," she instructed me. "They don't like it when you dance to their music."
Is that where we still are? "Their" culture and "our" culture, and never the twain shall meet? "African-Americans are welcome in our churches. Our RE did a Kwanzaa skit last December and many of our members are voting for Obama!"
Okay, okay. I'll dial down the snarkiness.
Here's an idea. Rather than saying, "Why won't 'they' come to our churches?" why don't we help set up African-American UU churches ... where those who are white, Hispanic, Asian, and Vulcan :) are also welcome to attend?
I don't have a problem with the concept that people want to be with other people like themselves. That happens at every UU church in the US. The difference is, how we define "people like us."
Come Sunday morning, we want to be with people like us. For those of us who are white, defining "people like us" by race is so unnecessary, we don't even consider it. Really, the rest of your week, you never get the experience of being with other white, straight males*? So you need to go somewhere that you can have that unique experience?
Probably not. But many of us do have the experience of weaving our way through a weekday world of the politically conservative, the religiously not-progressive. A world where it is assumed that you are straight, Christian, and probably vote Republican. (Depending on where you live and what is your profession. YMMV.)
So, come Sunday morning, we want to be around people like us. Where people know how 'vegan' and 'Kucinich' are pronounced and the only gay jokes you'll hear are from your outrageous gay friend Mark. And even he will get a disapproving look. After the chuckle of understanding.
Sunday morning, we want to go to a sanctuary. We want to go to a place that feeds our soul. And I'm willing to bet that if we wound up with some churches that reflected a more charismatic, answering-back, "tell your neighbor, 'Respect and Dignity,'" "Amen!" African American UU Church, there'd be a lot of white UU's crashing the party. And I'd be one of them.
Because I want to be around people like me.
* Going for the most obvious example. You could also remove "straight." And you could remove "male." And leave it as just "white."
It makes me remember when I was a teenager, visiting a cousin of mine, who lived in a small town. Across from her house was a small African-American church. The members were outside, having some kind of a picnic, playing music. I was grooving to the beat. (Truth be told, I've been known to groove to anything, including ring tones.)
"Don't do that," she instructed me. "They don't like it when you dance to their music."
Is that where we still are? "Their" culture and "our" culture, and never the twain shall meet? "African-Americans are welcome in our churches. Our RE did a Kwanzaa skit last December and many of our members are voting for Obama!"
Okay, okay. I'll dial down the snarkiness.
Here's an idea. Rather than saying, "Why won't 'they' come to our churches?" why don't we help set up African-American UU churches ... where those who are white, Hispanic, Asian, and Vulcan :) are also welcome to attend?
I don't have a problem with the concept that people want to be with other people like themselves. That happens at every UU church in the US. The difference is, how we define "people like us."
Come Sunday morning, we want to be with people like us. For those of us who are white, defining "people like us" by race is so unnecessary, we don't even consider it. Really, the rest of your week, you never get the experience of being with other white, straight males*? So you need to go somewhere that you can have that unique experience?
Probably not. But many of us do have the experience of weaving our way through a weekday world of the politically conservative, the religiously not-progressive. A world where it is assumed that you are straight, Christian, and probably vote Republican. (Depending on where you live and what is your profession. YMMV.)
So, come Sunday morning, we want to be around people like us. Where people know how 'vegan' and 'Kucinich' are pronounced and the only gay jokes you'll hear are from your outrageous gay friend Mark. And even he will get a disapproving look. After the chuckle of understanding.
Sunday morning, we want to go to a sanctuary. We want to go to a place that feeds our soul. And I'm willing to bet that if we wound up with some churches that reflected a more charismatic, answering-back, "tell your neighbor, 'Respect and Dignity,'" "Amen!" African American UU Church, there'd be a lot of white UU's crashing the party. And I'd be one of them.
Because I want to be around people like me.
* Going for the most obvious example. You could also remove "straight." And you could remove "male." And leave it as just "white."
African-American UU Church?
Something I've been wondering about ... has there ever been an attempt to create a church like Trinity within UUism? e.g. a predominantly African-American church in what is a predominantly white denomination?
I'm very interested in church planting, as a topic, and curious whether we've ever had an African-American minister, music director and DRE (or some combination) start a church in a black neighborhood.
I know we've attempted integrated revitalization -- I'm a big fan of Davies Memorial Church. But have we ever tried it from the get-go?
I'm very interested in church planting, as a topic, and curious whether we've ever had an African-American minister, music director and DRE (or some combination) start a church in a black neighborhood.
I know we've attempted integrated revitalization -- I'm a big fan of Davies Memorial Church. But have we ever tried it from the get-go?
Continuing the Discussion ...
I'm excited.
I'm in communication with someone at a predominantly African-American church near our church about having a "deep listening" group made up of members of both churches, focused on racial dialogue. "A More Perfect Union - the Continuing Discussion." She seems enthused, too.
Maybe there will be more than one group. (Definitely want to keep it small groups.) I can dream!
And I'm really excited about using the deep listening format for this, since in deep listening, there's no interruption, no arguing -- you speak from your own experience, rather than directly addressing another person's remarks. The focus is on the listening, not on "teaching" someone else.
But I would be surprised if there were not some profound learning.
I'm in communication with someone at a predominantly African-American church near our church about having a "deep listening" group made up of members of both churches, focused on racial dialogue. "A More Perfect Union - the Continuing Discussion." She seems enthused, too.
Maybe there will be more than one group. (Definitely want to keep it small groups.) I can dream!
And I'm really excited about using the deep listening format for this, since in deep listening, there's no interruption, no arguing -- you speak from your own experience, rather than directly addressing another person's remarks. The focus is on the listening, not on "teaching" someone else.
But I would be surprised if there were not some profound learning.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Finding Wicca
Ms. Kitty wants to hear from those of us with Pagan experiences.
It is because of Wicca that I have sympathy for and can understand the “born again” experience of religious ecstasy.
I was in my early 20’s when I discovered Wicca. I had faintly heard of it before, something about “real witches!” mixed up with “white witchcraft” and Stevie Nicks and a vague sense that this was something some women did in New England. It was certainly nothing I’d heard about in Texas. (Oh the irony … I was living in Austin at the time, a haven for pagans.)
A couple of years earlier, I’d purchased Mists of Avalon for The Husband, who’d expressed interest. I’d picked it up and gotten hooked. Hmm … female deity … priestesses … magic … it exposed me to a whole new world.
So, a couple of years after that, I picked up a romance at the library -- Charmed, by Nora Roberts, about the shy Anastasia. It used the word “Wicca” and talked about magic. Hmmm. Interesting.
It was at this time that the Internet, as we know it, was growing. No World Wide Web … you paid for your membership in Prodigy, and there you stayed.
But the Pagans were a) smart and b) lonely. Feeling they were all alone in the world, they created online communities. Anyone visiting the Wicca/Druid/Pagan board was greeted with warmth and generosity. They would happily answer the newbies’ questions again and again. Really lovely people.
The world that had been slightly opened to me with Mists of Avalon, exploded. On my new friends’ advice, I went to the mall bookstore (no Amazon.com back then!) and bought Wicca for the Solitary Practitioner. I stayed up all night reading it, occasionally waking up The Husband to excitedly read him a passage. (The Husband is not even remotely pagan, but he has always been uncommonly supportive in my spiritual pursuits.)
What I felt … it was as if I had been living locked up in a single house, and suddenly the front door was opened wide. Concepts that I had felt in my heart, had a name here, and were affirmed. Magick! A power given to all! A duality of female/male energy! Goddess! Seasons! A connection to the earth. A lack of judgment. A universal impetus to do good, not harm. Karma.
Wicca was a part of my journey and parts of it remain with me still. And ultimately, it has given me a deeper appreciation for Unitarian Universalism. I was born and raised UU and so it was something that I could take for granted. But now, when someone walks in our doors and after their first UU worship experience, with glowing eyes, they say, “This is my religion, that I never knew existed” … I know what they mean. I’ve had that moment, too. Through Wicca.
It is because of Wicca that I have sympathy for and can understand the “born again” experience of religious ecstasy.
I was in my early 20’s when I discovered Wicca. I had faintly heard of it before, something about “real witches!” mixed up with “white witchcraft” and Stevie Nicks and a vague sense that this was something some women did in New England. It was certainly nothing I’d heard about in Texas. (Oh the irony … I was living in Austin at the time, a haven for pagans.)
A couple of years earlier, I’d purchased Mists of Avalon for The Husband, who’d expressed interest. I’d picked it up and gotten hooked. Hmm … female deity … priestesses … magic … it exposed me to a whole new world.
So, a couple of years after that, I picked up a romance at the library -- Charmed, by Nora Roberts, about the shy Anastasia. It used the word “Wicca” and talked about magic. Hmmm. Interesting.
It was at this time that the Internet, as we know it, was growing. No World Wide Web … you paid for your membership in Prodigy, and there you stayed.
But the Pagans were a) smart and b) lonely. Feeling they were all alone in the world, they created online communities. Anyone visiting the Wicca/Druid/Pagan board was greeted with warmth and generosity. They would happily answer the newbies’ questions again and again. Really lovely people.
The world that had been slightly opened to me with Mists of Avalon, exploded. On my new friends’ advice, I went to the mall bookstore (no Amazon.com back then!) and bought Wicca for the Solitary Practitioner. I stayed up all night reading it, occasionally waking up The Husband to excitedly read him a passage. (The Husband is not even remotely pagan, but he has always been uncommonly supportive in my spiritual pursuits.)
What I felt … it was as if I had been living locked up in a single house, and suddenly the front door was opened wide. Concepts that I had felt in my heart, had a name here, and were affirmed. Magick! A power given to all! A duality of female/male energy! Goddess! Seasons! A connection to the earth. A lack of judgment. A universal impetus to do good, not harm. Karma.
Wicca was a part of my journey and parts of it remain with me still. And ultimately, it has given me a deeper appreciation for Unitarian Universalism. I was born and raised UU and so it was something that I could take for granted. But now, when someone walks in our doors and after their first UU worship experience, with glowing eyes, they say, “This is my religion, that I never knew existed” … I know what they mean. I’ve had that moment, too. Through Wicca.
A really great anniversary
March 31 was the two year anniversary of Little Warrior becoming cancer-free. Last year, I ruminated on what a difference a year makes. Of course, as Rev. Cynthia notes, what a difference a day can make.
A day ... an hour ... a minute. Out of all of it, I think I know the worst minute. More than the initial diagnosis, more than being told "the chemo isn't working," the worst moment, for me, came on March 31. When I walked down a very long, sterile hall, then handed LW over to the anesthesiologist to go in for surgery.
Such a wonderful doctor, the anesthesiologist. "It's okay. Take your time. Kiss her. We'll take good care of her," she soothed me, then taking LW in her own arms to go through the scary swinging doors that led to ...
Well, in LW's case, they led to life. To survival.
But I didn't know that yet. Not when I let her go out of my arms.
I imagine the best moment happened that day, too. Was it when we got the first phone call up from the operating room and they said that they were finished with the first kidney, and that they'd saved 2/3 of that kidney? We knew that all she needed to live was 1/2 of 1 kidney. So that phone call meant life.
Maybe it was at the end of the surgery when the surgeon came out to talk to us. He looked so, so tired. The entire surgery ... I can't remember ... 10 hours? 12? He came out. I had already steeled myself for him to say that they hadn't been able to save any of the second kidney. "We saved 1/2."
1/2! 1/2 + 2/3 is more than 1 and we knew plenty of people who lived good long lives with one kidney. It was unexpected. It was far more than we could have hoped.
My parents and mother-in-law went home and The Husband and I went to the cafeteria to eat while LW was in recovery, as the doctors and nurses dealt with getting her out of anesthesia, inserting a breathing tube. It would probably be a couple of hours before we could see her.
We got our food and sat down. Immediately, we got a phone call from the very delighted anesthesiologist. "She's ready! She's so strong, she's breathing on her own!"
Maybe that was the best moment. I don't know.
In retrospect, for the worst day of my life, it was a pretty damn good day.
A day ... an hour ... a minute. Out of all of it, I think I know the worst minute. More than the initial diagnosis, more than being told "the chemo isn't working," the worst moment, for me, came on March 31. When I walked down a very long, sterile hall, then handed LW over to the anesthesiologist to go in for surgery.
Such a wonderful doctor, the anesthesiologist. "It's okay. Take your time. Kiss her. We'll take good care of her," she soothed me, then taking LW in her own arms to go through the scary swinging doors that led to ...
Well, in LW's case, they led to life. To survival.
But I didn't know that yet. Not when I let her go out of my arms.
I imagine the best moment happened that day, too. Was it when we got the first phone call up from the operating room and they said that they were finished with the first kidney, and that they'd saved 2/3 of that kidney? We knew that all she needed to live was 1/2 of 1 kidney. So that phone call meant life.
Maybe it was at the end of the surgery when the surgeon came out to talk to us. He looked so, so tired. The entire surgery ... I can't remember ... 10 hours? 12? He came out. I had already steeled myself for him to say that they hadn't been able to save any of the second kidney. "We saved 1/2."
1/2! 1/2 + 2/3 is more than 1 and we knew plenty of people who lived good long lives with one kidney. It was unexpected. It was far more than we could have hoped.
My parents and mother-in-law went home and The Husband and I went to the cafeteria to eat while LW was in recovery, as the doctors and nurses dealt with getting her out of anesthesia, inserting a breathing tube. It would probably be a couple of hours before we could see her.
We got our food and sat down. Immediately, we got a phone call from the very delighted anesthesiologist. "She's ready! She's so strong, she's breathing on her own!"
Maybe that was the best moment. I don't know.
In retrospect, for the worst day of my life, it was a pretty damn good day.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
I Say Goodbye
I hate to do this, but I can't in good conscience keep this blog up. At midnight, I will be closing it down and deleting it.
The recent furor over the Rev. Jeremiah Wright -- that shows no sign of dying down -- has made obvious the danger in having a place where a religious leader can speak their own mind.
I have kept this blog "anonymous" -- the quotation marks are intentional. Anyone who knows me would instantly know this was my blog.
My reason for anonymity was to give myself the space to be honest. Especially when I was going through the worst of times, I needed a place to be able to open up. But I know myself -- if I knew that people who know me "in real life" could read my blog, I would begin to write for them, assuring them that I was fine, everything was good, no worries.
But who are we kidding. If a reporter were ever to take interest in my blog -- or anyone's -- they'd have name-rank-and-serial-number within an hour.
I don't mind owning my words, as confusing or mistaken as they might be at the time. I take, as my philosophy on this matter, the words of Emerson:
We are entering a time of forced transparency. It's a YouTube World, Baby, and we are just meat for the grinder. Podcasts of our sermons, worse yet, videos -- can be used not only against us, but against those for whom we've pledged to minister to. 5 seconds of a 20 minute sermon can be pulled out, twisted around, stripped of original meaning. Uploading our texts to share with the world is like handing weapons to those enemies of our parishioners.
And so, dear friends, I leave you. I will miss you, I will continue to follow your prophetic voices, even as I silence my own.
Be blessed.
April Fools!
The recent furor over the Rev. Jeremiah Wright -- that shows no sign of dying down -- has made obvious the danger in having a place where a religious leader can speak their own mind.
I have kept this blog "anonymous" -- the quotation marks are intentional. Anyone who knows me would instantly know this was my blog.
My reason for anonymity was to give myself the space to be honest. Especially when I was going through the worst of times, I needed a place to be able to open up. But I know myself -- if I knew that people who know me "in real life" could read my blog, I would begin to write for them, assuring them that I was fine, everything was good, no worries.
But who are we kidding. If a reporter were ever to take interest in my blog -- or anyone's -- they'd have name-rank-and-serial-number within an hour.
I don't mind owning my words, as confusing or mistaken as they might be at the time. I take, as my philosophy on this matter, the words of Emerson:
However, we have now entered a world in which not only will I be held liable for any thoughts I utter (or write), but my audience shall be held liable as well. If I say -- or write -- something outrageous, it can be used against them. How far might this go? If we use this on a presidential candidate today, who will it be tomorrow? Senator, mayor, councilperson? President of the PTA? Teacher?A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today. -- 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' -- Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.
"Did you or did anyone you know attend the church of Rev. Lizard Eater?"
We are entering a time of forced transparency. It's a YouTube World, Baby, and we are just meat for the grinder. Podcasts of our sermons, worse yet, videos -- can be used not only against us, but against those for whom we've pledged to minister to. 5 seconds of a 20 minute sermon can be pulled out, twisted around, stripped of original meaning. Uploading our texts to share with the world is like handing weapons to those enemies of our parishioners.
And so, dear friends, I leave you. I will miss you, I will continue to follow your prophetic voices, even as I silence my own.
Be blessed.
April Fools!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Shabbat Shalom, Black Church, and UU
Identity can be a big part of church. Jewish friends greet each other -- "Shabbat Shalom!" as they walk into temple. Black ladies ... at least in my part of the world, show off lovely Sunday hats, hats that are only seen on Sunday, going to church. Catholics wear their ashes all day, showing their religious identity.
It is bonding, religious identity. Several of my seminary friends come from AME or other predominately black churches. "It's one time of the week that I can come together with my people," they explain to me.
My people. I get that.
There is a lot to be said for group identity.
Some would argue that. Some would say that identity that comes from group membership is divisive. Maybe. But we still have the pull to it, don't we? Vegetarian, environmentalist, religious liberal, book lover, Star Trek fan ... it feels good, sometimes, to be with folks who are like you. To take a deep breath and say, I am with my tribe.
Not all the time. I am going to a non-UU seminary, a seminary where my race is not the majority and I love it. Of course, I am also around people like me -- people who want to make religion their profession.
People like me ... it changes as you move through groups. Heck, Saturday morning at Starbucks, you're with people like you ... people who want coffee in the morning.
So, once a week, it's good to be around people like you, religiously.
In our groups, we're still different. Watching the Democratic party right now is proof of that. Ye gods! Divide, divide, divide. Go to General Assembly and you're with people like you ... Unitarian Universalists. Divide, divide. UU Bloggers. UU Ministers. UU laiety. UU DREs.
But we are Unitarian Universalists.
It's not just the church I go to. It is part of my identity. I am a Unitarian Universalist. I am proud to be a Unitarian Universalist.
The Christian says proudly, I am a Christian. He feels that it explains something important about him.
Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper, too?
I wear my UU shirts out in public. I want to be identified as a UU. I think it says something important about me. Only problem is, nobody around here knows what a Unitarian Universalist is.
Aha!
First step: Shabbat Shalom! Glory in our Sunday mornings as a time in which people like us come together. Glory in our shared identity. (I want a short pithy phrase like Shabbat Shalom that we can say to each other. In two short words, it says: Celebration! Holiday! Proud to be a Jew! Joy to be together! When you figure out what this UU phrase is, please let me know.)
Second step: By their fruit you will recognize them. UU's ... get out, get out, get out. Go to church on Sunday morning, be refilled, but then get out into the world. Plant a tree, feed a child, build a house. Live life as a Unitarian Universalist, looking for the positive in others, listening to their words and their better intent before responding. By their fruit you will recognize them. Live life so that others say, I want to be one of them!
And let me know what the UU Shabbat Shalom is.
It is bonding, religious identity. Several of my seminary friends come from AME or other predominately black churches. "It's one time of the week that I can come together with my people," they explain to me.
My people. I get that.
There is a lot to be said for group identity.
Some would argue that. Some would say that identity that comes from group membership is divisive. Maybe. But we still have the pull to it, don't we? Vegetarian, environmentalist, religious liberal, book lover, Star Trek fan ... it feels good, sometimes, to be with folks who are like you. To take a deep breath and say, I am with my tribe.
Not all the time. I am going to a non-UU seminary, a seminary where my race is not the majority and I love it. Of course, I am also around people like me -- people who want to make religion their profession.
People like me ... it changes as you move through groups. Heck, Saturday morning at Starbucks, you're with people like you ... people who want coffee in the morning.
So, once a week, it's good to be around people like you, religiously.
In our groups, we're still different. Watching the Democratic party right now is proof of that. Ye gods! Divide, divide, divide. Go to General Assembly and you're with people like you ... Unitarian Universalists. Divide, divide. UU Bloggers. UU Ministers. UU laiety. UU DREs.
But we are Unitarian Universalists.
It's not just the church I go to. It is part of my identity. I am a Unitarian Universalist. I am proud to be a Unitarian Universalist.
The Christian says proudly, I am a Christian. He feels that it explains something important about him.
Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper, too?
I wear my UU shirts out in public. I want to be identified as a UU. I think it says something important about me. Only problem is, nobody around here knows what a Unitarian Universalist is.
Aha!
First step: Shabbat Shalom! Glory in our Sunday mornings as a time in which people like us come together. Glory in our shared identity. (I want a short pithy phrase like Shabbat Shalom that we can say to each other. In two short words, it says: Celebration! Holiday! Proud to be a Jew! Joy to be together! When you figure out what this UU phrase is, please let me know.)
Second step: By their fruit you will recognize them. UU's ... get out, get out, get out. Go to church on Sunday morning, be refilled, but then get out into the world. Plant a tree, feed a child, build a house. Live life as a Unitarian Universalist, looking for the positive in others, listening to their words and their better intent before responding. By their fruit you will recognize them. Live life so that others say, I want to be one of them!
And let me know what the UU Shabbat Shalom is.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Oh.My.God.
McCain will be the next president.
“You know, you can always go to the convention. That’s what credential fights are for.” -- Hillary Clinton
I can't be the only one thinking about 1 Kings 3.
“You know, you can always go to the convention. That’s what credential fights are for.” -- Hillary Clinton
I can't be the only one thinking about 1 Kings 3.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
You CAN make a difference ...
Moms scorned ...
I can give you the inside view that a whole lot of moms-of-cancer-kids were PISSED to find out that Arlen Specter, who has been on the tv circuit hawking his book about how he defeated cancer with his super will (and copious amounts of chemo) ... was the only Pennsylvania congressperson to not support the Conquer Childhood Cancer Act.
Many parents contacted Specter, only to get a form letter response. Including Amy Bucher. So she contacted a reporter, to see if he could get more of an answer.
At first, he got the same as she -- the form response.
And then ... he got a call from Specter. Who had decided that he would co-sponsor the bill.
I can give you the inside view that a whole lot of moms-of-cancer-kids were PISSED to find out that Arlen Specter, who has been on the tv circuit hawking his book about how he defeated cancer with his super will (and copious amounts of chemo) ... was the only Pennsylvania congressperson to not support the Conquer Childhood Cancer Act.
Many parents contacted Specter, only to get a form letter response. Including Amy Bucher. So she contacted a reporter, to see if he could get more of an answer.
At first, he got the same as she -- the form response.
And then ... he got a call from Specter. Who had decided that he would co-sponsor the bill.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I'm shocked that white people are shocked
... over Pastor Jeremiah Wright's sermons.
"What?" they seem to say. "How dare he? Why is he so ... angry?"
Are we really that obtuse? Really that blind?
I'm not talking about historical atrocities that were really, not that long ago. I'm talking about attitudes today.
Like the mayor of Jasper. You remember Jasper, right? Where James Byrd was horrifically beaten then dragged to death ... his body literally ripped apart.
The current mayor of Jasper, David Barber, says that the killing of James Byrd was "blown up out of proportion."
So I get the anger. I don't get the shock. Haven't we heard worse in our own homes, or in the homes of extended family?
How many of us were nodding with Obama, as we, in that moment, all shared the experience of having cringed at something racist someone we loved said?
Someone we loved. Not just a racist mayor. Someone we loved.
In Thandeka's book, Learning to Be White, she speaks to those with white skin, hearing their stories of when they first realized their whiteness, many of them realizing that someone they loved held racist views. Hateful views.
I have that memory. I was, oh, about 11 or 12. I was visiting my beloved Great-Aunt while my mother was running errands. I excitedly told her about a new hit song by a band called INXS, it was sooo cool. I told her the lyrics I knew:
Dream on white boy
Dream on black girl
And wake up to a brand new day
I somehow didn't register the next line ... "To find your dreams have washed away." So to me, it was a song of hope and beauty. That's how I'd been raised. As I danced around and told her about the song, I still lived in a world where all of the people I loved believed in racial equity and fairness. A world where racism was wrong and bad and all the people I loved were right and good.
That world was shattered as she began a tirade about desegregation and about how "we" were supposed to lift "them" up but instead "they" pulled us down to "their level."
I just remember standing there in shock. I don't remember what I said, or discussing it later with my mother, or any of that. I could not have been more shocked if she had begun explaining why it was necessary to murder toddlers.
I loved her for the rest of her life. But I learned how to love someone with disappointment, how to love someone with a quiet sorrow.
It's still going on. In big ways, like the mayor of Jasper, and in little ways like my sweet little aunt who, when talking politics with my mother, said timidly, "You'd vote for a black man?"
(My mother enjoyed announcing, "I already did!")
Obama hit on a detail in all of this that is so pertinent ... that it is so easy to divide up the world into camps -- racist on this side, people I love on the other side. But it really doesn't work that way.
I am not a subscriber to the notion of white guilt, but I know I have carried the uneasy feeling that to keep loving someone who was racist was wrong. That I should have completely excised them from my life.
They are old. They may not change before they die. But we still love them. With a bit of sorrow, but we still love them.
But now, they're living in our world.
"What?" they seem to say. "How dare he? Why is he so ... angry?"
Are we really that obtuse? Really that blind?
I'm not talking about historical atrocities that were really, not that long ago. I'm talking about attitudes today.
Like the mayor of Jasper. You remember Jasper, right? Where James Byrd was horrifically beaten then dragged to death ... his body literally ripped apart.
The current mayor of Jasper, David Barber, says that the killing of James Byrd was "blown up out of proportion."
So I get the anger. I don't get the shock. Haven't we heard worse in our own homes, or in the homes of extended family?
How many of us were nodding with Obama, as we, in that moment, all shared the experience of having cringed at something racist someone we loved said?
Someone we loved. Not just a racist mayor. Someone we loved.
In Thandeka's book, Learning to Be White, she speaks to those with white skin, hearing their stories of when they first realized their whiteness, many of them realizing that someone they loved held racist views. Hateful views.
I have that memory. I was, oh, about 11 or 12. I was visiting my beloved Great-Aunt while my mother was running errands. I excitedly told her about a new hit song by a band called INXS, it was sooo cool. I told her the lyrics I knew:
Dream on white boy
Dream on black girl
And wake up to a brand new day
I somehow didn't register the next line ... "To find your dreams have washed away." So to me, it was a song of hope and beauty. That's how I'd been raised. As I danced around and told her about the song, I still lived in a world where all of the people I loved believed in racial equity and fairness. A world where racism was wrong and bad and all the people I loved were right and good.
That world was shattered as she began a tirade about desegregation and about how "we" were supposed to lift "them" up but instead "they" pulled us down to "their level."
I just remember standing there in shock. I don't remember what I said, or discussing it later with my mother, or any of that. I could not have been more shocked if she had begun explaining why it was necessary to murder toddlers.
I loved her for the rest of her life. But I learned how to love someone with disappointment, how to love someone with a quiet sorrow.
It's still going on. In big ways, like the mayor of Jasper, and in little ways like my sweet little aunt who, when talking politics with my mother, said timidly, "You'd vote for a black man?"
(My mother enjoyed announcing, "I already did!")
Obama hit on a detail in all of this that is so pertinent ... that it is so easy to divide up the world into camps -- racist on this side, people I love on the other side. But it really doesn't work that way.
I am not a subscriber to the notion of white guilt, but I know I have carried the uneasy feeling that to keep loving someone who was racist was wrong. That I should have completely excised them from my life.
They are old. They may not change before they die. But we still love them. With a bit of sorrow, but we still love them.
But now, they're living in our world.
Friday, March 21, 2008
"Not significant"
I think I'm going to start living the Clinton Campaign Philosophy of Life: if anything crosses my path that doesn't make my life better in some way, I will claim that it is "not significant."
Richardson endorses Obama: Not significant.
Obama has won 30 states: Not significant.
Hmm. So if I get an "F" taking UU Congregational Polity, I'll just explain to the MFC that the class was not significant. If I forget to pay our mortgage for 3 months, I'll explain to the bank that those were not significant months. And if the police pull me over for going 60 in a 35, I'll explain that it was not a significant piece of road.
Think it'll work?
Richardson endorses Obama: Not significant.
Obama has won 30 states: Not significant.
Hmm. So if I get an "F" taking UU Congregational Polity, I'll just explain to the MFC that the class was not significant. If I forget to pay our mortgage for 3 months, I'll explain to the bank that those were not significant months. And if the police pull me over for going 60 in a 35, I'll explain that it was not a significant piece of road.
Think it'll work?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Who Do You Love?
I struggle with the idea of love.
I love the members of my church. I can't think of a single member whom I don't hold some love for, because of something about them.
Would that any time I met a new person, I could see that at some point, I will love them -- as I get to know them and discover the thing about them that I just love.
I can't always. As the person cuts me off in traffic, or huffs in front of me, or frankly, looks smooth and cool and polished when I am completely frumped out ... I am not mindful of the moment enough to understand that there is something in them that I would grow to love.
But it's there.
On one had, I am conservative and stingy. I love my friends and my family so fiercely, I don't want to sully that with using "love" as a lesser word.
On the other hand ...
I love the members of my church. I can't think of a single member whom I don't hold some love for, because of something about them.
I didn't always love them. But that's the great thing about a church community. As you get to know people, you get the opportunity to find out things about them that you love. The amount of generosity in the prickly old guy. The way the obstreperous guy just glows when he realizes a new idea. The way the completely dissimilar woman shares your exact belief about something that is important to you.
LOVE. I LOVE these people. I know that at some point, probably in the next year or so, I'm going to need to leave them. Part of my heart will be left with them. But this is a refillable resource. Because I know that as I get to know other folks, I'll love them.
Would that any time I met a new person, I could see that at some point, I will love them -- as I get to know them and discover the thing about them that I just love.
I can't always. As the person cuts me off in traffic, or huffs in front of me, or frankly, looks smooth and cool and polished when I am completely frumped out ... I am not mindful of the moment enough to understand that there is something in them that I would grow to love.
But it's there.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Where Do You Find Your 'Hallelujah'?
A big thanks to the Revs James "Monkey Mind" Ford and Kit "Ms. Kitty" Ketcham for inspiring me to revisit one of my favorite songs and see different renditions of it.
From that, sprung this sermon I delivered today with the help of our really terrific music chair. He sang and played (keyboard) Hallelujah, each verse handpicked by me (pickin' and choosin' from both major versions) and put in whatever order I wanted. Poetic license, ya know. I spoke a little, he sang a little. Talk a little, sing a little. I had no idea if it would work, but judging from the feedback, it did.
What a high.
--
"Where Do You Find Your 'Hallelujah'"
A sermon by Lizard Eater
(musical introduction, no words)
What’s the meaning of life?
Each of us has the responsibility for finding that out, for ourselves, according to where we are at the time. In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl says that to ask what is THE meaning of life is like asking a chess master, “What is the best chess move?”
Well, there is no “best chess move.” It depends on what’s going on in the game. And it’s going to change with every game, it’s going to change with every turn, as another piece is moved.
The meaning that I find in life at 16 – and no jokes about our teens, because they have amazing insight and can find incredible meaning at 16 – but that meaning we find at 16 is not going to be our meaning at 25 … which will not be our meaning at 46, or 79 or 101. And so it’s up to us to be open to new revelations.
Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
The baffled King is King David, who realized the inspiration that music can give to people. He realized that it can lead to communion with, as we call it in our Unitarian Universalist sources, the “transcending mystery.” And so, according to the Book of Chronicles in the Hebrew bible, he went out and found families who could sing during the time of worship. Singing praises to God in worship. And in time, this became a major part of the synagogue service.
And in David’s joy, in his inspiration, he wrote, “Seek ye the Lord and His strength Seek His face continually Sing unto Him, sing praises unto Him Sing praises unto the Lord with the harp: With the harp and with voice of melody.”
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah …
We find our meaning, and then we submit it to the tests that come from living life. And we find that what we thought was meaning … might not hold true anymore. We get disillusioned. By people, events. We discover that we held immature belief or naïve belief. We need more information, in order to figure out what has meaning. We venture out into life, to live life, to experience it, to gather information about what is our purpose and why are we here and we rush out to just have the sheer joy of experiencing life, in all its highs and lows.
And at some point, we say, why do I have to sing to the Lord? Why do I have to find meaning? Isn’t it enough that I just sing? Why does it have to be to the Lord, and who is that anyway? And we know that each of us has to find our own meaning in life, so how could we possibly have the same thing in mind when we say, “The Lord”?
Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
Well I dont even know the name
But if I did, well really, whats it to you
Theres a blaze of light in every word
It doesnt matter which you heard
The holy or the broken, hallelujah
The Holy or the broken …
Life is hard. Does anyone here read the cartoon strip, “Pearls Before Swine?” You’re twisted individuals. Me, too.
Recently, there was a strip where Rat asks Pig why he’s still in bed at noon. Pig says, “I woke up depressed. I’m kinda hoping that if I lay real still, the day won’t notice and I can just try again tomorrow.”
We wake up and find that love has left, or pain has moved in, illness, divorce, unemployment, a troubled child, a parent’s death. Life is hard. And from the depths of it all, even with the covers pulled over our heads as we pray that if we don’t move, maybe the day just won’t see us … still, there is that voice from deep inside that says, “Hallelujah.”
The first hymn that we did today – We Are a Gentle Angry People – was written by Holly Near after the assassination of openly gay San Francisco councilman Harvey Milk and the mayor, George Moscone. As the people gathered in candlelight vigil at the City Hall, they sang that song together. In the midst of that anger and hurt and grief … still, Holly Near found the Hallelujah.
Well, maybe there’s a God above
But all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it’s not a complaint you hear tonight
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah. But still … from deep in our soul, comes Hallelujah. Somehow, in even the worst of circumstances, we can find something to be grateful for. When our daughter was diagnosed with cancer, Tom and I would look at each other and say, “I really hate that I’m here. But if I have to be here, I’m glad you’re the one who is here with me.”
But here’s the thing … the Hallelujah comes from inside you. And now matter how much you want to, no matter how much you love another person, you can’t find their Hallelujah for them. Pointing out that yes, Job, you’ve lost everything, your children have all died, you’re covered in boils … but hey, you’re still alive! And you still have your hair! Will not be met with gratitude. You can only find your own Hallelujah.
But when we find our Hallelujah … when we find it …
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah …
It is praise for something outside ourselves.
Writers – whether they be poets, or novelists, or songwriters, often speak of not just being inspired, but about the words seeming to come from somewhere else. Not just out of their own heads.
Paul Stookey, he of Peter, Paul and Mary, wrote perhaps the most popular contemporary wedding song, There is Love. He says, “Into every songwriter’s life comes a song, the source of which cannot be explained by personal experience." He felt so strongly that this song came through him, not by him, that he created a charity, the Public Domain Foundation, Music for Social Change,” and gave them all the royalties. Since that time, they have taken in and distributed to worthy causes nearly 2 million dollars.
Something outside of us, something more than just what we know and what we experience, moves in us, and inspires us. And even if our hearts have been broken, our spirits shattered, this transcending mystery teaches us hope and enables us to try it one more time. We may still carry bitterness in our soul, but we find it easier to carry. We learn to let go of the fairytales and say Hallelujah for the reality, the messy, disillusioning reality. And we again open ourselves up to love.
Well baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor,
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
We often have little control over the circumstances of our lives. A move this way, a move that way, and we wouldn’t have wound up here. We can’t control other people. They may change, they may leave us, they may die. All we can control is how we respond. All we can control is if we continue to sing.
Jimmy Buffett wrote a song called, “He Went to Paris” about a young man filled with questions and thoughts, who falls in love, loses his wife and child in the blitz, thinks more about those questions and lives life. And at the end of it all, he says, “Some of it was magic, some of it was tragic. But I had a good life all the way.”
Just to be born, was an amazing gift, biologically, there was only a 1 in 40 million chance that you, just the way you are, would be born. And here you are. Finding meaning. Doing your best. Living life. No matter what happens, you were here. You are here. And you can sing Hallelujah.
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel so I learned to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the lord of song
With nothing on my lips but hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah.
Closing Words:
At the end of it all, no matter what twists life takes, what better thing can there be to say than Leonard Cohen’s words – I’ll stand before the lord of song with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah.
Hymns: We Are a Gentle Angry People, My Life Goes On (How Can I Keep From Singing), Alleluia. Offeratory: There is Love (The Wedding Song). "Reading" 2 -- I announced it as Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, then our music chair did a low-key version of "Turn, Turn, Turn." As part of the meditation, I told the Zen parable about the tigers, the cliff, and the strawberry.
From that, sprung this sermon I delivered today with the help of our really terrific music chair. He sang and played (keyboard) Hallelujah, each verse handpicked by me (pickin' and choosin' from both major versions) and put in whatever order I wanted. Poetic license, ya know. I spoke a little, he sang a little. Talk a little, sing a little. I had no idea if it would work, but judging from the feedback, it did.
What a high.
--
"Where Do You Find Your 'Hallelujah'"
A sermon by Lizard Eater
(musical introduction, no words)
What’s the meaning of life?
Each of us has the responsibility for finding that out, for ourselves, according to where we are at the time. In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl says that to ask what is THE meaning of life is like asking a chess master, “What is the best chess move?”
Well, there is no “best chess move.” It depends on what’s going on in the game. And it’s going to change with every game, it’s going to change with every turn, as another piece is moved.
The meaning that I find in life at 16 – and no jokes about our teens, because they have amazing insight and can find incredible meaning at 16 – but that meaning we find at 16 is not going to be our meaning at 25 … which will not be our meaning at 46, or 79 or 101. And so it’s up to us to be open to new revelations.
Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
The baffled King is King David, who realized the inspiration that music can give to people. He realized that it can lead to communion with, as we call it in our Unitarian Universalist sources, the “transcending mystery.” And so, according to the Book of Chronicles in the Hebrew bible, he went out and found families who could sing during the time of worship. Singing praises to God in worship. And in time, this became a major part of the synagogue service.
And in David’s joy, in his inspiration, he wrote, “Seek ye the Lord and His strength Seek His face continually Sing unto Him, sing praises unto Him Sing praises unto the Lord with the harp: With the harp and with voice of melody.”
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah …
We find our meaning, and then we submit it to the tests that come from living life. And we find that what we thought was meaning … might not hold true anymore. We get disillusioned. By people, events. We discover that we held immature belief or naïve belief. We need more information, in order to figure out what has meaning. We venture out into life, to live life, to experience it, to gather information about what is our purpose and why are we here and we rush out to just have the sheer joy of experiencing life, in all its highs and lows.
And at some point, we say, why do I have to sing to the Lord? Why do I have to find meaning? Isn’t it enough that I just sing? Why does it have to be to the Lord, and who is that anyway? And we know that each of us has to find our own meaning in life, so how could we possibly have the same thing in mind when we say, “The Lord”?
Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
Well I dont even know the name
But if I did, well really, whats it to you
Theres a blaze of light in every word
It doesnt matter which you heard
The holy or the broken, hallelujah
The Holy or the broken …
Life is hard. Does anyone here read the cartoon strip, “Pearls Before Swine?” You’re twisted individuals. Me, too.
Recently, there was a strip where Rat asks Pig why he’s still in bed at noon. Pig says, “I woke up depressed. I’m kinda hoping that if I lay real still, the day won’t notice and I can just try again tomorrow.”
We wake up and find that love has left, or pain has moved in, illness, divorce, unemployment, a troubled child, a parent’s death. Life is hard. And from the depths of it all, even with the covers pulled over our heads as we pray that if we don’t move, maybe the day just won’t see us … still, there is that voice from deep inside that says, “Hallelujah.”
The first hymn that we did today – We Are a Gentle Angry People – was written by Holly Near after the assassination of openly gay San Francisco councilman Harvey Milk and the mayor, George Moscone. As the people gathered in candlelight vigil at the City Hall, they sang that song together. In the midst of that anger and hurt and grief … still, Holly Near found the Hallelujah.
Well, maybe there’s a God above
But all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it’s not a complaint you hear tonight
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah. But still … from deep in our soul, comes Hallelujah. Somehow, in even the worst of circumstances, we can find something to be grateful for. When our daughter was diagnosed with cancer, Tom and I would look at each other and say, “I really hate that I’m here. But if I have to be here, I’m glad you’re the one who is here with me.”
But here’s the thing … the Hallelujah comes from inside you. And now matter how much you want to, no matter how much you love another person, you can’t find their Hallelujah for them. Pointing out that yes, Job, you’ve lost everything, your children have all died, you’re covered in boils … but hey, you’re still alive! And you still have your hair! Will not be met with gratitude. You can only find your own Hallelujah.
But when we find our Hallelujah … when we find it …
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah …
It is praise for something outside ourselves.
Writers – whether they be poets, or novelists, or songwriters, often speak of not just being inspired, but about the words seeming to come from somewhere else. Not just out of their own heads.
Paul Stookey, he of Peter, Paul and Mary, wrote perhaps the most popular contemporary wedding song, There is Love. He says, “Into every songwriter’s life comes a song, the source of which cannot be explained by personal experience." He felt so strongly that this song came through him, not by him, that he created a charity, the Public Domain Foundation, Music for Social Change,” and gave them all the royalties. Since that time, they have taken in and distributed to worthy causes nearly 2 million dollars.
Something outside of us, something more than just what we know and what we experience, moves in us, and inspires us. And even if our hearts have been broken, our spirits shattered, this transcending mystery teaches us hope and enables us to try it one more time. We may still carry bitterness in our soul, but we find it easier to carry. We learn to let go of the fairytales and say Hallelujah for the reality, the messy, disillusioning reality. And we again open ourselves up to love.
Well baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor,
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
We often have little control over the circumstances of our lives. A move this way, a move that way, and we wouldn’t have wound up here. We can’t control other people. They may change, they may leave us, they may die. All we can control is how we respond. All we can control is if we continue to sing.
Jimmy Buffett wrote a song called, “He Went to Paris” about a young man filled with questions and thoughts, who falls in love, loses his wife and child in the blitz, thinks more about those questions and lives life. And at the end of it all, he says, “Some of it was magic, some of it was tragic. But I had a good life all the way.”
Just to be born, was an amazing gift, biologically, there was only a 1 in 40 million chance that you, just the way you are, would be born. And here you are. Finding meaning. Doing your best. Living life. No matter what happens, you were here. You are here. And you can sing Hallelujah.
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel so I learned to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the lord of song
With nothing on my lips but hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah.
Closing Words:
At the end of it all, no matter what twists life takes, what better thing can there be to say than Leonard Cohen’s words – I’ll stand before the lord of song with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah.
Hymns: We Are a Gentle Angry People, My Life Goes On (How Can I Keep From Singing), Alleluia. Offeratory: There is Love (The Wedding Song). "Reading" 2 -- I announced it as Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, then our music chair did a low-key version of "Turn, Turn, Turn." As part of the meditation, I told the Zen parable about the tigers, the cliff, and the strawberry.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Just Because He Doesn't Read the Pregnancy Books
doesn't mean he won't be a good father.
Vicki Iovine in her Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy says something similar, and she's right, about that.
The Husband and I just watched Knocked Up which brought up some weird realizations -- Oh My God, I will never pee on a test stick again! That phase of my life is gone! I am effectively middle-aged!
And some memories. Lizard Eater narrows her eyes at the hapless Husband. You never read the pregnancy books. "I did, a bit," he protests. Not when I was pregnant with our first. "That's true," he admits.
They say that there is labor-amnesia, that a woman can't remember the pain of labor. Apparently there is Father-Pregnancy-Amnesia ... The Husband swears that he can't remember what he was thinking or feeling during our first pregnancy.
I think he's lying, but my waterboard is being borrowed by the U.S. government at the moment.
So here's the deal ... we had been married 5 years, the pregnancy was completely and utterly planned ... no matter. It's still a Big Huge Shock to both.
I distinctly remember explaining to him that because of his indifference, that he would not be in the delivery room with me, that I would get someone else.
I can't even remember why. He was great with the appointments -- with my first pregnancy, he was there at every one. Afterwards, we'd go shop for maternity clothes, or baby furniture, or something else adorable.
And he was fine with childbirth classes. So what was it? Hmmm. I think it was those GD books. The guy who read about absolutely anything, would not read a single sentence about babies or pregnancy or childbirth. I don't know why. He says he doesn't know why, either.
I know that until they were born, he never felt that he had anything to do with their cause. When I was preggo up with #2 ... or was it #3? I asked him, "So, when I'm pregnant, do you feel kind of macho? You know, (Brooklyn tough guy accent), "Ey, I knocked up my woman."
He looked at me blankly. And it was then that I realized, and I said to him -- You don't really think you had anything to do with it?
He smiled sheepishly. You think that the great god Thor came down and caused this. He grinned wider.
In any case ... 4 kids later, I am here to tell you that he's the finest father on earth. He's there at the father-daughter dance and picking up from Girl Scouts and taking The Boy for haircuts. He makes their lunches every morning. He's putting LW to bed as we speak, as he does every single night. When he comes home, 4 little people run to the door shouting, "Daddy's home!" And one big person.
Just because we're different, doesn't mean one's wrong. Vive la difference!
Vicki Iovine in her Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy says something similar, and she's right, about that.
The Husband and I just watched Knocked Up which brought up some weird realizations -- Oh My God, I will never pee on a test stick again! That phase of my life is gone! I am effectively middle-aged!
And some memories. Lizard Eater narrows her eyes at the hapless Husband. You never read the pregnancy books. "I did, a bit," he protests. Not when I was pregnant with our first. "That's true," he admits.
They say that there is labor-amnesia, that a woman can't remember the pain of labor. Apparently there is Father-Pregnancy-Amnesia ... The Husband swears that he can't remember what he was thinking or feeling during our first pregnancy.
I think he's lying, but my waterboard is being borrowed by the U.S. government at the moment.
So here's the deal ... we had been married 5 years, the pregnancy was completely and utterly planned ... no matter. It's still a Big Huge Shock to both.
I distinctly remember explaining to him that because of his indifference, that he would not be in the delivery room with me, that I would get someone else.
I can't even remember why. He was great with the appointments -- with my first pregnancy, he was there at every one. Afterwards, we'd go shop for maternity clothes, or baby furniture, or something else adorable.
And he was fine with childbirth classes. So what was it? Hmmm. I think it was those GD books. The guy who read about absolutely anything, would not read a single sentence about babies or pregnancy or childbirth. I don't know why. He says he doesn't know why, either.
I know that until they were born, he never felt that he had anything to do with their cause. When I was preggo up with #2 ... or was it #3? I asked him, "So, when I'm pregnant, do you feel kind of macho? You know, (Brooklyn tough guy accent), "Ey, I knocked up my woman."
He looked at me blankly. And it was then that I realized, and I said to him -- You don't really think you had anything to do with it?
He smiled sheepishly. You think that the great god Thor came down and caused this. He grinned wider.
In any case ... 4 kids later, I am here to tell you that he's the finest father on earth. He's there at the father-daughter dance and picking up from Girl Scouts and taking The Boy for haircuts. He makes their lunches every morning. He's putting LW to bed as we speak, as he does every single night. When he comes home, 4 little people run to the door shouting, "Daddy's home!" And one big person.
Just because we're different, doesn't mean one's wrong. Vive la difference!
Friday, March 07, 2008
Hillary Clinton's Strategy
I think this editorial is spot-on. It explains what the Clinton machine is doing.
Hillary Clinton, Fratricidal Maniac
"The only way to lessen that reluctance would be to destroy Obama's general election viability, so that superdelegates had no choice but to hand the nomination to her."
Hillary Clinton, Fratricidal Maniac
"The only way to lessen that reluctance would be to destroy Obama's general election viability, so that superdelegates had no choice but to hand the nomination to her."
Being a UU and Crisis
Moxie asks,
So, what comfort was UUism to me during those dark, dark times? Was it a comfort?
Yes. A thousand times yes.
I can't speak for anyone else. Only myself. But Unitarian Universalism was exactly what I needed at that time. If you want to see it, start at January 25, 2006 and continue for 7 months. Or til today. (Next scans, April 8.)
I can't read them, myself. It still hurts too much. But I remembered a few posts and with one eye shut, searched them out:
Being a UU and a Parent of a Cancer Patient
sad
Ours is no caravan of despair
Footprints in the Sand
It would be impossible for me to separate out people from the religion that brought me comfort. They are as inexorably intertwined as two old necklaces in my jewelry box.
I have become friends with other parents facing that same dark night ... parents who have gone farther; they did have to make a decision about their child's body.
Many of them have a more conservative theology to brace themselves with, a constant creed to turn to. They had a religion that claimed to have the answers.
It doesn't matter. UU or Catholic or Jew, we all come to the same place: I can't understand why things like this happen.
Whether we say, "God understands the reason," or "No one understands, for there is no reason," the end result is the same. Understanding why may be beyond our human comprehension.
Unitarian Universalism, as a religion, gave me the comfort that the questions I struggled with were not new. I was merely one in a line of humanity who has wept and shook my fist and questioned. Unitarian Universalism said, "There is wisdom in all religions. Rather than try to tie yourself in knots about why a certain belief doesn't ring true for you, you can sample from many."
And when I did what, spiritually, I had to do -- in my case, it was to strip away all of my beliefs about God, the universe, karma, puppy dogs and unicorns -- when I did all that, I still had Unitarian Universalism. I still had church people who cared about me, both real and "virtual" (my blogger friends, who were often privy to more of my head than those who knew me in real life). I had a religion that still welcomed me. Didn't believe in God? Didn't believe that there was meaning? It was not necessary to leave my religion as others find themselves compelled to do.
I have witnessed others, in their creed-full faiths, ripped apart with grief, rip further with guilt at their inability to toe their religious party line. Like me, they found no easy answers. But whereas my disillusionment was another element in my spiritual development, theirs became a source of shame.
Ultimately, it was in Unitarian Universalism that I found meaning again. My deep listening group met, and we discussed "Big Questions." No one provided answers. They provided stories of their experiences that led to their beliefs. And in listening to others, really listening to them, I found a way to listen to the quiet still voice in me. And I found some answers.
How does being a Unitarian bring comfort during a time of crisis? ... how does being UU help? What comfort is there in our religious faith? I am asking about the big things, death, why do bad things happen, war, famine, etc. Big trials and personal trials that are hard to accept. This is dark night of the soul kind of stuff and my question is what comfort is there in being Unitarian while you are struggling with these difficult situations...How does this work for you?First ... Moxie, I'm really sorry for what you're going through. Frankly, I despise the dark night of the soul and hope that I don't have to revisit it anytime soon. I had no idea how incredibly dark it was until I found myself trying to figure out what I would do with LW's body if she died.
So, what comfort was UUism to me during those dark, dark times? Was it a comfort?
Yes. A thousand times yes.
I can't speak for anyone else. Only myself. But Unitarian Universalism was exactly what I needed at that time. If you want to see it, start at January 25, 2006 and continue for 7 months. Or til today. (Next scans, April 8.)
I can't read them, myself. It still hurts too much. But I remembered a few posts and with one eye shut, searched them out:
Being a UU and a Parent of a Cancer Patient
sad
Ours is no caravan of despair
Footprints in the Sand
It would be impossible for me to separate out people from the religion that brought me comfort. They are as inexorably intertwined as two old necklaces in my jewelry box.
I have become friends with other parents facing that same dark night ... parents who have gone farther; they did have to make a decision about their child's body.
Many of them have a more conservative theology to brace themselves with, a constant creed to turn to. They had a religion that claimed to have the answers.
It doesn't matter. UU or Catholic or Jew, we all come to the same place: I can't understand why things like this happen.
Whether we say, "God understands the reason," or "No one understands, for there is no reason," the end result is the same. Understanding why may be beyond our human comprehension.
Unitarian Universalism, as a religion, gave me the comfort that the questions I struggled with were not new. I was merely one in a line of humanity who has wept and shook my fist and questioned. Unitarian Universalism said, "There is wisdom in all religions. Rather than try to tie yourself in knots about why a certain belief doesn't ring true for you, you can sample from many."
And when I did what, spiritually, I had to do -- in my case, it was to strip away all of my beliefs about God, the universe, karma, puppy dogs and unicorns -- when I did all that, I still had Unitarian Universalism. I still had church people who cared about me, both real and "virtual" (my blogger friends, who were often privy to more of my head than those who knew me in real life). I had a religion that still welcomed me. Didn't believe in God? Didn't believe that there was meaning? It was not necessary to leave my religion as others find themselves compelled to do.
I have witnessed others, in their creed-full faiths, ripped apart with grief, rip further with guilt at their inability to toe their religious party line. Like me, they found no easy answers. But whereas my disillusionment was another element in my spiritual development, theirs became a source of shame.
Ultimately, it was in Unitarian Universalism that I found meaning again. My deep listening group met, and we discussed "Big Questions." No one provided answers. They provided stories of their experiences that led to their beliefs. And in listening to others, really listening to them, I found a way to listen to the quiet still voice in me. And I found some answers.
What are your spiritual definitions?
I took a long walk and realized that if I had to define my spiritual beliefs by a label, it would be “radical universalist.” Which lead me to define radical universalist, which lead me to define a host of other radical (in our world) words. Here are my spiritual definitions. What are yours?
Holy Spirit: inherent in EVERYONE and connecting everyone. It is the spirit of love – the ability to love others unselfishly, the ability to receive love from others, the ability to love oneself. Everyone has the Holy Spirit in them, whether they know it or not. You can ignore the Holy Spirit, you can block it, but you can never get rid of it. It can be pushed down so far so as to make it invisible, but it’s still there.
God: a name used for accessing the Holy Spirit. We can communicate with the Holy Spirit, we can get guidance from the Holy Spirit. If we need to see God, one of the easiest ways is to look at another person. God is in every person.
Radical Universalism: the belief that all individuals, no matter what, have the Holy Spirit in them and that all individuals, no matter what, are capable of salvation.
Salvation: becoming the person whose life reflects their inmost values, which are guided by the Holy Spirit.
Holy Spirit: inherent in EVERYONE and connecting everyone. It is the spirit of love – the ability to love others unselfishly, the ability to receive love from others, the ability to love oneself. Everyone has the Holy Spirit in them, whether they know it or not. You can ignore the Holy Spirit, you can block it, but you can never get rid of it. It can be pushed down so far so as to make it invisible, but it’s still there.
God: a name used for accessing the Holy Spirit. We can communicate with the Holy Spirit, we can get guidance from the Holy Spirit. If we need to see God, one of the easiest ways is to look at another person. God is in every person.
Radical Universalism: the belief that all individuals, no matter what, have the Holy Spirit in them and that all individuals, no matter what, are capable of salvation.
Salvation: becoming the person whose life reflects their inmost values, which are guided by the Holy Spirit.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
"After today, I just don't think I can vote for Hillary ...
...if she gets the nomination."
Huh? I ask.
My mom explains. Apparently Hillary aligned her experience with McCain's, putting Obama on the other side of the fence.
Mama is an old-school, Southern Belle, Democrat. You don't wear white shoes after labor day, you don't serve two starches at a meal, and you by-gum don't put a fellow Democrat below a Republican in a race.
"She doesn't care about Democrats," sez Mama. "All she cares about is winning."
Well, apparently, Hillary would agree with you. ("Winning. Winning. Winning. Winning. That's my measurement of success," she said. "Winning.")
Hmm. I won't get into my opinion about Hillary's negative campaigning. I'll just say that if you've managed to make a old-school, yellow-dog-Democrat like my Mama say that she won't vote for the Democratic candidate ... well, you've just already lost, hun'.
Huh? I ask.
My mom explains. Apparently Hillary aligned her experience with McCain's, putting Obama on the other side of the fence.
Mama is an old-school, Southern Belle, Democrat. You don't wear white shoes after labor day, you don't serve two starches at a meal, and you by-gum don't put a fellow Democrat below a Republican in a race.
"She doesn't care about Democrats," sez Mama. "All she cares about is winning."
Well, apparently, Hillary would agree with you. ("Winning. Winning. Winning. Winning. That's my measurement of success," she said. "Winning.")
Hmm. I won't get into my opinion about Hillary's negative campaigning. I'll just say that if you've managed to make a old-school, yellow-dog-Democrat like my Mama say that she won't vote for the Democratic candidate ... well, you've just already lost, hun'.
Okay, Ms. Theo ...
Very blurry, but it gives you the general idea. This is the end of my presentation ... no need to post the earlier part, in which I had to actually -- with a straight face -- make arguments such as "Unequal justice does not mean we should stop justice -- more white people need to be executed, not fewer minorities." And, "It is dehumanizing to treat a person as a patient to be cured. To punish is to treat the person with respect as someone who knows better and should be held accountable."
Capital Punishment and the Bible
Capital Punishment and the Bible
Little Red Corvette ...
Thanks to Ms. Kitty for this test:
I'm a Chevrolet Corvette!
You're a classic - powerful, athletic, and competitive. You're all about winning the race and getting the job done. While you have a practical everyday side, you get wild when anyone pushes your pedal. You hate to lose, but you hardly ever do.
Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Au Revoir, Les Feminists ...
Really good essay:
The Feminist Case for Obama
Election aside, I think that this is going to be the year in which a lot of feminists (3rd wave?) finally decided they wanted nothing to do with the second wave feminists of Gloria Steinem and Linda Hirshman's ilk. The so-called feminists who say if you don't vote for Hillary Clinton, you're being disloyal to feminism. Those who say feminism is about having abundant choices, but if you choose "wrong" by becoming a stay-at-home mother or voting for Barack Obama, then you're not really a feminist.
Here's what's going to happen ... keep telling us who isn't really a feminist. Keep expanding that circle. But don't be surprised when we shrug our shoulders and say, Okay. Fine. I'm not a feminist. I don't want that label anymore. The label you wear.
The Feminist Case for Obama
Election aside, I think that this is going to be the year in which a lot of feminists (3rd wave?) finally decided they wanted nothing to do with the second wave feminists of Gloria Steinem and Linda Hirshman's ilk. The so-called feminists who say if you don't vote for Hillary Clinton, you're being disloyal to feminism. Those who say feminism is about having abundant choices, but if you choose "wrong" by becoming a stay-at-home mother or voting for Barack Obama, then you're not really a feminist.
Here's what's going to happen ... keep telling us who isn't really a feminist. Keep expanding that circle. But don't be surprised when we shrug our shoulders and say, Okay. Fine. I'm not a feminist. I don't want that label anymore. The label you wear.
Capital Punishment ... and Sodom and Gomorrah
Last night was a good night. A really good night.
I rendered my class speechless. My professor, too.
I had to do a presentation for my Contemporary Ethics class on capital punishment. And it had to be from our textbook, Options in Contemporary Christian Ethics by Norman Geisler.
This is not a good book. It is full of straw man arguments that the author then authoritatively knocks down. Eureka! It is poorly written and shows an appalling lack of citations. The author can just state something as fact ... no citation, no source.
But ya gotta do what you gotta do. So I covered the chapter, narrowing down each philosophy about capital punishment (according to Geisler) and delivering his conclusion.
And then I said, "I'm not done." I explained that the author left out one argument, and that for me, it's the deal breaker. "But what if someone innocent is given the death penalty?"
First I used the author's own words about mercy -- "the supremacy of mercy over justice in unavoidable moral conflicts.”
Then I had a slide with information from the Innocence Project --
(I explained that this was just DNA exonerations. According to The Death Penalty Information Center, since 1973, there have been 127 death row inmates who have been exonerated.)
I go to a conservative Christian seminary. Everything must be justified by scripture. Okay.
"In the 18th book of Genesis, God tells Abraham that he is going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham says, but what if there are 50 righteous people there? And God says, if there are 50 righteous people, for their sake, I will not destroy it. And Abraham asks … what if there are 45? 40? 30? 20? And God keeps saying, for their sake, I will not destroy it."
Photographs courtesy InnocenceProject.org. All persons pictured were sentenced to death before being exonerated by DNA testing.
The professor finally laughed. "I've never seen you all speechless. Does anyone have any questions?"
A classmate said there was nothing to say. That it was powerful, and there was no argument for it.
And then ... the thing we always dream of hearing ...
"I've never thought of it that way."
It was a very good night.
I rendered my class speechless. My professor, too.
I had to do a presentation for my Contemporary Ethics class on capital punishment. And it had to be from our textbook, Options in Contemporary Christian Ethics by Norman Geisler.
This is not a good book. It is full of straw man arguments that the author then authoritatively knocks down. Eureka! It is poorly written and shows an appalling lack of citations. The author can just state something as fact ... no citation, no source.
But ya gotta do what you gotta do. So I covered the chapter, narrowing down each philosophy about capital punishment (according to Geisler) and delivering his conclusion.
And then I said, "I'm not done." I explained that the author left out one argument, and that for me, it's the deal breaker. "But what if someone innocent is given the death penalty?"
First I used the author's own words about mercy -- "the supremacy of mercy over justice in unavoidable moral conflicts.”
Then I had a slide with information from the Innocence Project --
- There have been 213 post-conviction DNA exonerations in United States history.
- About 70 percent of those exonerated by DNA testing are members of minority groups.
- Sixteen people had been sentenced to death before DNA proved their innocence and led to their release.
(I explained that this was just DNA exonerations. According to The Death Penalty Information Center, since 1973, there have been 127 death row inmates who have been exonerated.)
I go to a conservative Christian seminary. Everything must be justified by scripture. Okay.
"In the 18th book of Genesis, God tells Abraham that he is going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham says, but what if there are 50 righteous people there? And God says, if there are 50 righteous people, for their sake, I will not destroy it. And Abraham asks … what if there are 45? 40? 30? 20? And God keeps saying, for their sake, I will not destroy it."
Then he said, "May the Lord not be angry, but let me speak just once more. What if only ten can be found there?My last slide:
He answered, "For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it." Gen 18:32
- The system is broken
- Death is irrevocable
- If God would grant mercy for all of Sodom and Gomorrah for 10 innocent people … Shouldn’t we?
Photographs courtesy InnocenceProject.org. All persons pictured were sentenced to death before being exonerated by DNA testing.The professor finally laughed. "I've never seen you all speechless. Does anyone have any questions?"
A classmate said there was nothing to say. That it was powerful, and there was no argument for it.
And then ... the thing we always dream of hearing ...
"I've never thought of it that way."
It was a very good night.
Friday, February 29, 2008
"Vote for Hillary or Your Children Will Die!"
I used to really admire Hillary. I got to see her in a forum in Austin in the early 90s with other fabulous women -- Sarah Weddington, Liz Carpenter, Ann Richards, Lady Bird Johnson ... It was thrilling and she seemed to embody so much of what I admired -- assertive, funny, willing to put herself out there for what she believed in.
But the choices that she has made in this primary season are wrecking that admiration. This "win at all costs" attitude is not something I value.
I understand that she feels desperate. But I thought that we, as Democrats, were above playing the fear card.
Her latest commercial ... vote for Hillary or your sweet sleeping children will die ... is nauseating.
Molly Ivins got there before I did, in the column, Not. backing. Hillary: "Enough. Enough triangulation, calculation and equivocation."
Yeah. What she said.
But the choices that she has made in this primary season are wrecking that admiration. This "win at all costs" attitude is not something I value.
I understand that she feels desperate. But I thought that we, as Democrats, were above playing the fear card.
Her latest commercial ... vote for Hillary or your sweet sleeping children will die ... is nauseating.
Molly Ivins got there before I did, in the column, Not. backing. Hillary: "Enough. Enough triangulation, calculation and equivocation."
Yeah. What she said.
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