There are two new lizard eaters in the Lizard Eater home

My friend, Witch Goddess, "whispered" in a feral cat, on the "catch, spay, and release" plan. "This cat is lactating," announced her vet. So she beat the bushes, found the kittens, and whispered them in. We took 2 of 3, two sisters, whom my kids have named Tabitha and Sookie.

I think this has been the longest time in my life I've been without a cat. Our 18 year old cat died, and then LW was rediagnosed, so not really the right time to get a new kitty.

They're pretty skittish, but getting lots of love. Tabitha (stripey one) is curled up inside my shirt right now. Hey, this attachment parenting stuff still comes in handy.

No.

I will not be breastfeeding them.

Taking my Prejudice Pulse

I agree with Eric Holder that we're so afraid to talk about racism, we miss out on helpful conversations. So I'll throw out an inner dialogue from my life:

Crossing the parking lot yesterday, a car rolled up to me. "Can you help me?" asked a 30ish black man, in an well-worn tshirt and a do-rag.

"Yes," I said, not moving forward.

He held out a piece of paper. "Do you know where this is?"

I moved closer, so I could read it. It had the address of the hospital/medical offices I'd just been in. I gave what I hoped was a comforting smile (because it is confusing, it had stressed me out earlier) and told him it was right there; the offices were part of the hospital. He thanked me and drove off.

Walking away, I thought about the short interaction; specifically, my response to him.

The fact that I did not immediately get closer to the car was intentional. My children walk to school and this is something we drill into them -- if a car pulls over to talk to you, do NOT go closer to the car. Be wary, be alert.

I take the same advice. At a few of the grocery stores near us, women have been robbed in the parking lots. And in the past year, a woman was forced into a car; her body was found a week later.

I don't believe in living in fear, convinced that every person is ready to do you harm. My life is far more pleasant if I assume, until proven otherwise, that everyone is a friend. But I leave some space. And I tell my children to pay attention to their instincts. Especially as women, we often are taught to ignore our instincts. "Don't get off the elevator when your internal alarm is ringing. That would be rude."

"Would you have acted differently if he were white?" I queried myself.

I thought about that. I mentally saw a white guy of the same age, old tshirt, do-rag or gimme cap. No, I don't think so. Same wariness.

I mentally retraced my steps. The windows weren't tinted, so when I saw that he was alone, that was when I began moving forward.

Okay, class test. What if he were wearing a suit and tie?

Hmm. Okay, got me. Not sure I would have moved forward any faster, but wouldn't have been as deliberately wary.

What if he were old?

Guilty. Would have moved forward a lot faster.

Color matter?

Black man in tie and suit ... black old man ... no, I believe it would have been the same. No halo over my head, it's just that I have a different set of experiences. My favorite professor is black. The majority of my classmates are black. My pal R bears a startling resemblance in size and appearance to Michael Clarke Duncan. What if he'd been Mexican, in a low rider? Hmm. Not sure. I don't think it would have been different. I keep going back to the fact that it was a single person in the car. If there had been a woman in the car with him, probably not much change. If it had been two men, probably a little more caution. Three men? Probably would have had Danger Danger Will Robinson! in my head. I mean, why would three men be going to the doctor together? ("It's hard enough to get one man to go," she cackles, the sexist piglet.)

Even after going through the exercise, there is no final judgment. Just an urge to keep checking my reflexes.

It is a challenge, being a woman. So many of us are raised to be afraid. It is easy to turn your life into "Defensive Living." Watch what you wear. Where you go. Who you're friendly to.

So, I try to find a balance. Smile at strangers (this is what we do in the south), but keep my finger on the alarm button when walking to my car at 10 pm. Be equitable in my caution.

So, I may need to be a little more cautious around those suit and tie types. It could be the Preppy Killer. Or, you know, an insurance salesman.


Lizard Eater apologizes to the insurance salesmen she has made fun of. And men who don't go to doctors. Speaking of, Husband, have you made your appointment?

PSA

I had an appointment with a dermatologist this morning. Two suspicious mole-looking things.

I have to confess ... I should have gone a lot sooner, but I allowed life to get in the way. All the steps ... find the login information for my insurance, find a doctor on my plan, make an appointment, well, I procrastinated.

I was lucky. I left with a "looks fine to me," and an appointment to go back on a regular followup schedule.

Let me tell you about my dad.

He and my Mom go to the dermatologist every 6 months. They strip down and she goes over every square inch. A few years ago, in taking several of the little suspicious areas that a person who has lived in the sun their whole lives develops, she took a bit from my father's back. "I'm not really sure I should send this in," she admitted. But she did. And this, the least suspicious looking freckle, turned out to be malignant melanoma. The bad one. The one that can kill you.

She referred him to the best of the best. They removed it. They tested his lymph nodes and ran him through several tests. Result: no need for further treatment. They got it all.

This spring, routine check, they found another spot, this time on his arm. Unrelated to the first one. Removed it, did the pathology. Malignant melanoma, but with clean margins. No need for further treatment.

This is what can happen with early detection. EARLY DETECTION. They find it, remove it, and that's it. No chemo. No radiation. No death.

So consider this your message from the universe. Make that appointment you've been procrastinating on. Get in the habit. Hopefully, you'll be like me, walking to your car, thinking, "Huh. That's a load off my mind."

Synchronicities

About a week ago, my parents were out on their driveway when they smelled something foul. They looked around, went and raised the door of my father's workshop, where the smell seemed to be coming from.

My father looked down -- the smell was from a dead snake. My mother had been out there a couple of days before, lowered the door, and without knowing it, crushed the head of a rattlesnake, its rattles raised.

"Mom!" my sister exclaimed, when they spoke about it, "You've got to be more careful, you've got to be more aware."

(I simply pointed out to Mom that it's good that God takes care of fools and children for which she heartily agreed.)

Sunday morning, as I was preparing for church, I got a phone call. It was my father. My mother had been in the hospital since midnight. Earlier in the day, she'd been dizzy and her teeth ached. She sat down and felt too tired to stand up. She knew that for women, a symptom of heart attack can be tooth or jaw pain. She chewed an aspirin, the best way to take it in that situation. She took her blood pressure. It was fine, but her pulse was racing. She told my father, "We'd better go to the hospital."

She was having what turned out to be a minor heart attack.

She's home now, and doing fine. They've got her on all kinds of drugs, and a heart monitor is on its way.

During this time with her in the hospital, the hours of procedures on her end, waiting for a phone call on my end, I was uploading all of our cds to an external hard drive, rediscovering old friends. I found Kate Bush's This Woman's Work.

I played it. I wept.

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman's work,
This woman's world...
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking

Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand...
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.

Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.

Over the years since retirement, my father has had two bouts of melanoma, a near stroke, various ailments that come with age. My mother - nothing. She is tall and slender, won't even eat butter on her toast, mows the yard, keeps the house.

Twice now, with my father, she has also left her home to step into the roll of parent to her grandchildren, as I tended to Little Warrior.

She is empathetic with her words and actions, but strict with her words. When I would call home from college, whining about having 3 finals on one day, she would say, "Buck up!" It has become a joke between the two of us. Buck up. There's work to be done.

When we spoke on the phone the first time since she'd been admitted, she complained a bit about the tests and botheration. "Buck up," I told her. She laughed.

I don't watch So You Think You Can Dance, but a friend told me about this performance from last night. More coincidences.

Watch it, and maybe weep a bit. And then, buck up. There's work to be done.

Pablo's LiveStrong Video

Our little friend from Wilms' World, Pablo, who recently passed away, is featured in a new LiveStrong video. It's touching. Pass it on. (This was filmed back in February, when they thought Pablo would be healthy and healthy by now.)

Pablo and Jeff's Video

And, yet another article came out, letting us know that even for survivors, danger lurks ahead. But bless Dr. Dome -- the rock star of the Wilms' world -- if he can prevent even one doctor from telling another newly-diagnosed family that Wilms' is "the cancer to have."

The Husband and I watched the video together, I showed him the article. It's hard. We feel like our friends feel we should get over it, move on. Her hair is growing back and everything's fine, right? No one has said that, of course, and probably they don't feel it. They just don't know what to say. We don't either. Emily Post doesn't talk about this. We don't want to be bores, constantly talking about childhood cancer. But it's ever present. There is no goal line. We never get to spike the football, to paraphrase the movie "Parenthood."

"We might have thought there was," says The Husband. "But that's the first time. After the second time ..."

"Fool me twice," I say.

"Yeah."

"Once you've taken the red pill, you can't go backward."

He nods.

"Or is it the blue pill? I can never remember which is which."

"It doesn't matter," he says. "We never got a choice."

Good Ole UU Boys

So several folks that I know are still thinking about this idea of UU Culture and what it looks like.

Let me tell you about one of my pictures of Unitarian Universalism.

My father. My daddy, as we Southerners often say, no matter how old we get.

Born in 1929 in Texas. He grew up in a small town in East Texas, raised Baptist. He left the religion but still gets a twinkle in his eye when he sings along with one of his favorite songs and it gets to the line about "Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does, But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was." He left the religion behind, but he remembers the feelings.

That song is Don Williams' "Good Ole Boys Like Me" and it sums up a lot about him, and a lot about other UU men I know.

Last year, when I read about Greg McKendry standing up to the shooter who walked into the Knoxville UU church, oh I sobbed. Not just for him and his loved ones, but because my thoughts immediately went to J and A, two big men in our church, two men that I can see doing the same thing. They're Good Ole Boys.

What? You thought Good Ole Boys were only uneducated bigots? Then you don't know Good Ole Boys, my friend. There were Good Ole Boys at Selma, too -- and they were walking with the protestors. One of then was the abovementioned friend J.

So that's one of my images of UU. Good Ole Boys, who help stack the chairs at the end of the service, and come jump your car battery when you're by the side of the road, and bring a big pot of chili to the potluck and have friends over to watch the UT - A&M game at Thanksgiving. And frown and say, "Now, that jest ain't right," when someone cracks a racist joke.

Tell me about your images.

--


When I was a kid Uncle Remus he put me to bed
With a picture of Stonewall Jackson above my head
Then daddy came in to kiss his little man
With gin on his breath and a Bible in his hand
He talked about honor and things I should know
Then he'd stagger a little as he went out the door

CHORUS:
I can still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees
And those Williams boys they still mean a lot to me
Hank and Tennessee
I guess we're all gonna be what we're gonna be
So what do you do with good ole boys like me

Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does
But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was
The smell of cape jasmine thru the window screen
John R. and the Wolfman kept me company
By the light of the radio by my bed
With Thomas Wolfe whispering in my head

When I was in school I ran with kid down the street
But I watched him burn himself up on bourbon and speed
But I was smarter than most and I could choose
Learned to talk like the man on the six o'clock news
When I was eighteen, Lord, I hit the road
But it really doesn't matter how far I go

UU Culture -- T'aint Just Yankees

"It was true that American Unitarianism had flowered in New England and was part of a proud heritage, but the situation was not unlike that of Christianity, which bloomed in the Holy Land, where it is now extinct except for a few shrines maintained for pilgrims. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that this might someday occur with American Unitarians." -- George Marshall, writing about A. Powell Davies

The Boy snapped a picture of a UU seminarian, doing a little light reading.

There were a few quotes that came out of GA about our "Yankee culture" so when I saw this pic, I had to laugh.

This isn't a serious post -- I'm still on vacation, y'all -- but if you think our UU culture is strictly Yankee, I'd request that you explore the research of the Rev. Dr. Barbara Coeyman, who has written about the time in our history when Texas was just lousy with Universalists.

As for the present, I think three of the most dynamic and potentially influential ministers of our religion are located in Albuquerque, Tulsa, and Atlanta.

Again, nothing serious about this post. The point of the two speakers who referenced our Yankee culture was not Southerners vs. Yanks, and I found both of their fuller talks to just light my fire.

As for me, I'm kicking back with some Christmas* enchiladas and contemplating what a cowboy UU church would look like.



*New Mexico term indicating that a person wants both red AND green sauce on their dish.

The River

Silently the morning mist is lying on the water
Captive moonlight waiting for the dawn
Softly like a baby's breath a breeze begins to whisper
“The sun is coming, quick you must be gone.”

The habitat that feeds our soul is different for everyone. Some are desert people, some get their energy from the city. Some find their joy at the beach. For me, it is the mountains.

Smiling like a superstar the morning comes in singing
The promise of another sunny day
And all the flowers open up to gather in the sunshine
I do believe that summer's here to stay

Two years ago, The Husband, our foursome, and I came up to stay in a cabin alongside the Pecos River. My parents drove up and spent a couple of days with us. No internet, no cell coverage. We liked it so much, we made plans to all come back last summer, plus my brother and his wife, and my sister.

The best laid plans of mice and men …

After we received the phone call that made me drop to my knees, I waited to cancel. Waited for the formal diagnosis of recurrent Wilms’ Tumor. Waited to decide on our plan of treatment. Waited til I figured out the calendar, and knew for absolute sure that there was no way we could go up in the mountains. And still I waited. I could handle so much, but making that phone call to cancel our reservation … I just couldn’t do it. Without any words between us, my mother knew. When she canceled her reservation, she also canceled ours.

In the hospital last summer, there was one channel on the hospital tv where they ran video of nature scenes and soothing music.

One of the frequent scenes was a river in the mountains, tall pines stretched above it. It was so much like our place, I couldn’t watch it. It didn’t soothe me. I didn’t know if we would ever return.

She ended treatment in November. In January, we needed to make our reservations. It scared me. There would be at least two sets of scans between January and summer. I made the reservations. The lodge for my crew. Two smaller cabins for my parents and my brother.

A week ago, we drove the meandering mountain road up to our cabin. Before unpacking, leaving The Husband and my children opening drapes and setting themselves up in the lodge, I walked down to the river.

It was still there.

Of course it was still there, you might say. You think the river would be stopped by your life, your sadness?

Maybe I did, a little. Maybe it was hard to believe that the river would keep flowing.

Sit beside a mountain stream, see her waters rise
Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies

Every day we were there, the river and I would hold long conversations. It would tell me about the things it had seen since I’d last been there – snows in the winter, deer drinking at dawn – and I told it about what I’d seen. We both saw death this year, and we both saw birth. The river kindly carried my tears downstream; I dipped my hand in her cold water and splashed it on my face. The river is generous with both her healing medicine and her counsel.

And Oh, I love the life within me
I feel part of everything I see
And Oh, I love the life around me
A part of everything is here in me

Yesterday, after a glorious holiday, it was time to leave. Turn off the lights, wash the towels, close the drapes, lock the doors.

I went down to the river to say goodbye. I stood above her on the deck, and I knelt down beside her in a hidden little room at her edge, with overhanging branches and stones for seats, where the children and I were sure we’d seen fairies.

Already, we talk of our plans for next summer, when and how, but definitely all of us.

My parents are old, Little Warrior is … Little Warrior. We know that plans might need to be canceled. But we make them with hope and happiness and anticipation.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.

--
Attribution: Summer by John Denver, Mother Nature's Son by The Beatles, A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.

Love hurts

Little Warrior climbs into my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine, and squeezes hard. She pulls back and looks in my face. "Did that hurt?"

No, I assure her.

She crinkles her forehead and squeezes me again, harder. "Did that hurt?" she asks.

Why does it need to hurt? I ask her.

"Because I love you soooo much!" she explains happily. She squeezes me again. It hurts.

But not from the hug.

It is hard to sing today

The little one that I told you about, the one who on Tuesday prompted so much rejoicing as an x-ray revealed the tumors had shrunk ... today, his parents will take him home to die.

The chemo was working well, but it was too late. The tumor in his lungs is strangling him. There's nothing they can do except try to keep him from pain.

The news is filled with Farrah and Michael and so sad about their deaths. Meanwhile, a young, funny boy named Pablo will die with much pain for those who love him, and little notice by the rest of the world.

Last year, the Caroline Pryce Walker Conquer Childhood Cancer Act was signed into law. "This act holds the promise of $30 million, each year for the next five years, in funding to support childhood cancer research."

But as I'm learning, passing something into law doesn't mean anything. There also has to be an agreement to fund the Act.

Please, please contact your congressperson today and ask that they add their name to the "Dear Colleague" letter that is being circulated by Senator Jack Reed (RI) and Senator Johnny Isakson (GA) to secure funding for the Act.

And if you pray ... say a little prayer for Pablo. That his passing is peaceful and without pain. For him.

A Random Post About Random Things

I am checking this site a bazillion times a day, hoping they post this year's Berry Street lecture. Everything I've read has me jumping up and down in anticipation.

Right after writing my below post on How Can I Keep From Singing, I checked a Wilms' friend's blog. About a month ago, they'd been told "It's growing and we don't know what else to do." Well, they found a brand new experimental chemo. Tuesday, they got the news that the tumors had shrunk by 50%. Even as I write that, I cry again. Their blog is filled with comments from others crying with joy. When friends rejoice both far and near, how can I keep from singing?

End of the semester, I couldn't wait for summer and a break. Already, I'm chomping at the bit to get back. I'm meeting my advisor today, to sign up for an Old Testament class and Principles of Preaching. Since the OT class is his, I'm hoping he'll tell me what books I need to get, so I can start reading them.

Yes, I am Hermione. What I'd give for a time turner! There's a class on church growth ...

I am packing to go up into the mountains. We had this trip all planned for last summer -- my crew, my parents, my brother and his wife, one of my husband's sisters. Of course, we had to cancel it last year because the cancer came back. I couldn't call and cancel. My heart just wouldn't let me. My mom canceled our reservation when she canceled hers.

Tuesday, we'll be there.

I'm packing: flyrod. Camera. Guitar. Clothes. French press. Bathing suit. (There's a hot tub outside our cabin.) Apples to Apples game. Kleenex. Because I'm probably going to burst into tears when I see the cabin.

At the hospital, there was a "calming" channel that played gentle music with video from nature. One bit of footage they ran often was a forest stream in the mountains. So I never put on that channel. Too symbolic of all that we were missing.

We were at the hospital yesterday. Dropping off cases of Girl Scout cookies that my glamorous sister-in-law donated to the cancer clinic. And getting one of LW's teeth checked. (She has to see a special dentist, due to chemo teeth.)

My gang of ruffians was with me. Sitting down for a quick snack, The Princess reminisced about the slumber parties we had there. "We even made cancer fun," she said.

That made me feel inordinately proud.

My favorite song

Books, movies, art -- the #1 spot, the favorite, of each of these changes fairly often. But for music, my favorite stays steady. I'm so glad it is in our hymnal ... even if my favorite verse, the fourth, isn't.

In our hymnal, we call it by the first line -- "My Life Flows On in Endless Song." But to me, it is always "How Can I Keep from Singing?"

To me, it is a prayer. It is a hope. It is my personal mission statement.

We don't always live up to our mission statements. There have been times when I could not sing. My lips couldn't form the words; it was all I could do to breathe, I couldn't spare the air to do more than that.

But inside, I like to think my soul continued to sing.

My life flows on in endless song
Above earth's lamentation.

Down here with my earthly and emotional attachments, I can feel as if I'm not moving. But my life continues to move forward with this gift of existence.

I hear the real, though far off hymn
That hails a new creation

When I stop, when I take a break from focusing on my existence, I am in awe of the process that continues to create -- create a person, an idea, seemingly from nothing.

Above the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?

Honking horns and illness and pain ... but there is a sweet song, of love and life. If I listen, I can hear it. I comes from all over the universe ... and it also comes from inside me.

What through the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.

The tempest can be so loud, so very loud it seems to drown out everything else. But still it is there. The truth. That loves exists. That we exist. And it is all a gift.

What through the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

The dark night can be so very dark. There are times when life hurts more than it brings joy. But we can still find the song called hope. And it gives us strength to go one more day.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of Heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

I strive for this. As I cling with bloody hands, just to hang on for one more day, inside I try to find that quiet confidence that knows that there is limitless,undying love, and it will sustain me.

When tyrants tremble, sick with fear,
And hear their death-knell ringing,

The tyrants can be literal, those in power who know their time of power is passing. The tyrants can be internal, those forces that hold me back. And they can be literally internal ... cancer cells being extinguished.

When friends rejoice both far and near,
How can I keep from singing?

Part of this power of the universe, this love, connects us all. I send out a notice -- clear scans! -- and friends all over the earth sing out joy.

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging.

So many prisons. Today, I think of those in Iran. Tomorrow, I think of the parents looking out the windows of their children's hospital rooms.

When friends by shame are undefiled,
How can I keep from singing?

No matter our battle, we continue, unbroken, still walking in integrity.

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin,
I see the blue above it
And day by day this pathway clears,
Since first I learned to love it

It's so hard to see past the clouds sometimes. Recently, though, I began to see the blue sky again. Every day, I see a little more sky, as I regain my love and joy for life.

The peace of God restores my soul,
A fountain ever springing

Whatever words I use to understand "God," the Process, the Universe, the Love -- God provides healing. Limitless healing. My soul can be battered ... and restored, yet again.

All things are mine since I am loved
How can I keep from singing?

I am loved. I am loved on a personal level by friends and family. I am loved by complete strangers, I know that now, I have evidence. Whatever my understanding of God, and it is fluid and often changing, it always, always, involves love.

There is a force of love in the world that connects all.
Existence is a profound, overwhelming gift.

If I know those two things, then I am hearing the song of the universe. It comes from the farthest stretches of space, all along the earth, it swirls around me, I am inside it, and then from inside myself, the same song can be heard. I am in the song and of the song.

How can I keep from singing?

A New Way to Elect President?

On the Election-L list through the UUA, a conversation began yesterday, prompted by Mike Durall, about a different way to select a UUA President.

Come to find out, there's already a proposal to do just that. I missed this -- was there much talk in the blogosphere about it? If so, I was out to lunch.

Under the proposed changes to the elections process, the UUA would establish a Presidential Search Committee, which would choose two candidates for the presidency. The search committee would consist of seven members, with five elected by the General Assembly, one appointed by the Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, and one appointed by the Board of Trustees.

The search committee would become the UUA’s sixth standing committee, alongside the Nominating Committee, the General Assembly Planning Committee, the Commission on Appraisal, the Commission on Social Witness, and the Board of Review.

Other individuals could run for the presidency by petition.

Tamara Payne-Alex, trustee-at-large from San Jose, Calif., chaired the working group that wrote the proposed changes. “Congregations are not present in the current process,” she said, because self-selected presidential candidates begin the process of seeking endorsements and fund-raising largely behind the scenes. “Congregations find out who the candidates are only after the slate has been presented. We wanted to make it more like a ministerial search process. We want to use this as an opportunity to energize and engage the electorate.”

... Under the new bylaws, the president’s and moderator’s terms would be shortened from a maximum of eight years (two four-year terms) to one six-year term.

I realize a whole lot of the blogger folks are at General Assembly, but I'll ask anyway: Thoughts?

Of course, this is just about the nomination process. The process of running for office, the money involved, the travel ... that's a whole other question.

An Ordinary Birthday

When I was 17, graduating from high school, I was bemused at those who filled in their “senior form” for the yearbook that they wanted to be accountants, engineers, secretaries. An ordinary life, that was what they hoped for.

I was the kid with the paragraph next to her name – drama, speech, newspaper, French club, Student Council, choir …

I was voted “Most Talented Girl,” probably because I won awards for UIL. But, you know, the “Most Talented Boy” could ride a unicycle.

Disclaimer: I can’t ride a unicycle.

Also next to my name, it said something about how I was either going to be a journalist or a stage actress. Not just actress, mind you. No-ho-ho, much too snobbish for movies or (cough, cough) teeveeee. Only the stage.

Well, life happens. I decided that being an actress … well, I saw some extreme self-focus, and decided it wasn’t for me. (This was before blogs had been invented. I’m sure my younger self would be appalled.)

And I decided I wanted the white picket fence. I graduated, got into Big Bidness. Turns out, I had a talent for putting out purple prose of the advertising sort. Became a nationally published copywriter, hawking jewelry that also required me to come up with form letters that apologized for when the golden roses fell off of the sparkling, genuine silver rings.

This led me into marketing, and coming up with great campaigns, many of which played upon the emotions of proud parents. “I love you, Son,” read one of the most popular.

Eventually I retired my pen and by then, my graphic design portfolio. I had the white picket fence, complete with the toddlers trying to scale it.

The Husband and I went through a rough patch. Not between us, but life, in the form of a company collapsing, a lawsuit.

We survived. We were glued, through the phone, on 9/11. 9 months later, we had child 3.

My graphic design skills were still in use, for free, by my church and my district. That district called and said, “We’ll send you to GA.” I went to GA. I received a call I could no longer ignore. I began seminary. A month later, I found I was pregnant with my 4th child. Just like the others, planned, and still, amazingly, right on schedule. Well … might be a little early.

Took a short break from seminary. Bought a house. Had a baby. Sold old house. In that order. Sweat, sweat, sweat.

Ready to go back to school. At Christmas, we toasted our plans.

Two weeks later, I took my baby in to the doctor, just a strange little bulge.

The earth cracked apart.

A year and a few months later, God tapped me on the shoulder and said, I love you. And I want you as much as you want me. And it’s nobody’s fault.

And a couple months after that, I went back to seminary. And I healed.

And a year after God tapped me on the shoulder, life kicked me in the gut. And ripped out my heart. And it was much, much worse this time.

And still, I finished the semester.

And then I went in the hospital. Every couple of weeks. And I told sweet stories when her fair fell out, about sweet little birds making their nests out of the hair. And I baked cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. And I grew fat.

But the warrior didn’t lose weight.

And we survived. All of us. All six of us, and all those around who loved us.

And I immediately went back to seminary. And Weight Watchers. And planned for a big trip. And then another trip.

And did it all. And then … I could stop fiercely treading water.

And I began to sink.

But sooner than I imagined, my feet touched bottom. I wasn’t as far from shore as I thought.

I touched bottom, and pushed off. Made it to the surface. Swam to the beach. Lay down.

And breathed.

And cried.

I’m still crying.

But I’m also still breathing.

Today, I turn 40.

I am thankful for my life.

A friend, for my birthday, wished me gratitude. Most days, I am awash in it.

And those days that I’m not … are short.

And the next day, I am thankful yet again. For an ordinary life. Because now I know.

There is no such thing. There are only extraordinary lives.

Each and every one.

UU Parents and UU Kids

As well as being a UU Parent, I'm also a UU kid. Actually, a Unitarian kid. I don't believe my parents have ever referred to themselves as Unitarian Universalists, not out of some idealogical belief, but for the same reason my mother calls my dad "Tommy" while the rest of the world calls him "Tom." When they met, he was Tommy. When they began going to church, in the 1950's, they went to the Unitarian church. They're Unitarians.

Growing up, if I pressed them about their personal religious beliefs, they usually used the word "agnostic" as "humanist" hadn't yet gained its current popularity. But they were Unitarians, dedicated to freedom of belief, and so they always emphasized that it was up to me to determine by own beliefs.

But guess what? I grew up and my beliefs didn't match up with theirs.

I did my religious experimentation ... UCC church camp with a friend in junior high, Christian Student Union in high school, visiting whatever church my current boyfriend went to -- Catholic, Baptist, Jewish, Pentecostal.

I remember distinctly being 20, standing in the kitchen at home on Christmas break, and casually telling my older sister and mother that I believed in the Virgin Birth.

I'm glad they weren't holding anything breakable, as they surely would have dropped teacups, goblets, vases. What? they asked. Didn't I know that "virgin birth" was found in so many religions, it wasn't even original, and didn't I understand metaphor and and and and ...

Several years later, I discovered Wicca. It hit home at the time. I was so excited. I understood now my Baptist friends and their fervor, their feeling of being "born again." Mine wasn't being born again in Christ, but in a Goddess religion that reflected so many of the deep feelings inside me. Pantheist and panentheist thought sparkled in me -- so many ideas, so many concepts!

I attempted to share some of this with my mother. In the same way that some people just have no interest in football or scrapbooking, my mother really has no interest in theology. She looked at me blankly, having no idea why anyone would want to spend so much time reading and thinking about religion. Now social action ... that was something real!

All this is to explain why I have a foot in each camp of the theist/humanist wings of our religion. I get very excited about the UU ministers who are getting comfortable with the "language of reverence." I hope, as Rev. Christine says in her recent Imagineering Faith sermon, all our churches can be places "where its safe to speak about my tender, precious spiritual life."

I am also tenderly protective of those whose feelings are reflected in a recent question posed to the UU presidential candidates:

...many of the secular humanists of previous generations, despite the acceptance of diversity that we say we believe in, are feeling bereft – bereft of a sanctuary from the world of deity (Christian or otherwise). The UU church was the one place in many UU’s lives where those who lived to a different drummer, theologically speaking, could live without the expectation that they subscribe to a divine being.

Many theist new UU's don't have that same sentimental tenderness. They have come from Christian or unchurched backgrounds, and they don't understand that these previous generations have been here for decades. Generations who have seen their fellowships where God was never uttered, where you went to a program not a worship service, be infiltrated with people who beat drums or light candles, who not only have a moment for reflection, they meditate or ye Gods! pray.

Teach your parents well, teach your children well.

Of course, there are those who have always been deists, just as there are brand spankin' new agnostics coming to our congregations.

But what I've been seeing lately is a generational shift, from older, humanist UUs to younger, theist UUs.

My father has said before, of raising children, that you raise them to think for themselves and the first thing they do, they think the wrong thing.

(As a mother of a 13 year old, I have my moments of agreement.)

Balance, balance. Balance to not recoil when someone says, "I love God." Balance to not feel defensive when a theological scholar presents a program that challenges what you believe.

Like the Virgin Birth.

Twitterers ...

Passed on from Rev. Sean:

For those who tweet: Change twitter profile to location: TEHRAN, time zone: GMT+3.30. Iran govt hunting 4 bloggers. If we're all Iranians harder 2 find them.

Don't call me Bitch, BOY!

Speaking of gender expectations ...

Today at church, one of the teens was in a room with a bunch of younger children, dropping F and S bombs left and right. The Boy came and alerted me when the teen told my eldest girl (9 years old), upon seeing her drop a toy, "Pick it up, bitch!" In a joking tone.

Oh no you don't. Not my child and certainly not in my church.

The Husband went and found the teen's father and alerted him to what happened. The teen's father was visibly appalled and went off to handle it. (The Husband would have addressed the teen directly, with his father present, but couldn't find him.)

At home, we let The Boy know that at church, it is fine if he wants to speak up himself, and tell the other person, "Do not talk like that around the younger children," or more personally, "Do not call my sister that." And we went on with our day.

Um ... duh? I'm empowering my son to defend his sister's honor?

Went upstairs to where all the kids were, with The Husband. Explained to The Princess that at church, she should feel comfortable standing up for herself. We did some role-playing. We talked about the fact that no one has the right to call her names or speak to her with disrespect. We talked about whether she has ever heard her mother or father talk to each other like that, even when we disagree.

I don't condemn the teen ... okay, not too much. He's just trying out new behavior, experimenting with his "dark" side. Trying it out in front of younger children is pretty turkey-ish, but hopefully it will lead to a long conversation with his parents.

Still, I think that if The Princess had narrowed her eyes, put her hands on her hips and said, "Don't call me bitch, BOY!" it might have had a more lasting effect the next time he thought of talking to a girl with disrespect.

As for me, I feel a bit turkey-ish that my first thought was about empowering her brother, not her. It is startling to find yourself unthinkingly falling into attitudes you didn't know were lurking inside.

I am a gay, black, non-girly man

Or so Facebook tells me, in a variety of online quizzes. Well, specifically, that I'm gay, black and non-girly.

This isn't a diatribe against Facebook quizzes, though one certainly is allowed to roll one's eyes at quizzes that, based on whether you like fried chicken or not, or if you're "flamboyant" or not, determine your race and sexual identity. Oh, and the girly ... really, there are people who wear mascara to the gym? Really?

Rather, my weariness is to the larger world that insists on clear-cut boundaries.

I think of the scene in Tom Sawyer when the woman tosses a ball of yarn at Tom. He pulls his legs together, this "outs" him as a boy. I don't think this test would work today, do you?

I often watch the first 10 minutes of "The View." It seems to be a fairly reliable guide to what folks are talking about around the water cooler.

This week, they talked about Thomas Beatie, the man who just gave birth to his second child.

Whoopi was definitive in her opinion, which she presented as fact, that since Beatie has a vagina, he is a woman.

Oh, Whoopi.

A day or so later, Elizabeth Hasselbeck explained that merely by wanting to have a baby, Beatie revealed himself to be a woman, because she's never known a man who wanted to bear a child.

Really, Elizabeth? Really? Because I've known scads who admitted that they were quite envious that I could carry a baby in my own body, birth it into life, and then provide its only nourishment from my own body.

There is a New Yorker cartoon that shows a bull, looking up at a moon with a cow jumping over it, saying to his calf, "Son, your mother is a remarkable woman." I've had the privilege of knowing many men who feel that way about any woman who has given birth.

Whoopi, Elizabeth ... you're wrong. And Facebook Quiz writers, you're wrong. It's not cut and dried. Sexuality, gender ... and yes, even race. Look at all the people who will argue about whether Barack Obama is white or black.

We are, all of us, such mutts. Race and sex. Spreading your legs to catch a ball doesn't identify you as female anymore.

Neither does spreading your legs to give birth.

Rocking Bo Peep into the World

7 years ago tonight, I was rocking in a rocking chair.

Ceaselessly. Rock, rock, rock.

I had a big ole belly and my obstetrician said that if I didn't go into labor on my own by the next day, she was inducing. I'd had pitocin in the middle of my first labor, with The Boy, without an epidural, and I just remembered bad pain. No pitocin! No pitocin!

I tried everything. Yes, everything.

Rocking in the rocking chair kept my contractions going. If I stopped rocking, I stopped contracting.

(No comments, please, about how I should have just let my body determine the timetable. That's true for most folks. But I had gestational diabetes and an extremely rare condition, unless you're Chilean or Scandinavian - I'm neither - called intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy. Or as I called it, Itching So Much I Wanted to Jump Through A Plate Glass Window.)

We were due at the hospital at 5 am. C'mon, Body, birth!

My Mother-in-Love, bless her patient heart, stayed up with me, talking with me about all kinds of things as I rocked. Religion, tv, family ... okay, I'm lying. I have no idea what we talked about. But late into the night. Finally, about 2 am, I gave up, and went to bed.

(I wound up being induced for Little Warrior's birth and discovered that when paired with a nice nip of epidural, pitocin wasn't bad at all. Yes, I know. I'm a horrible mother for having an epidural. Add it to a list that includes downing a margarita that the BFF-DRE snuck in after I gave birth.)

The alarm rang in the morning and I managed to roll/slide my way out of bed. I stood up.

Contractions.

By the time we got to the hospital, the contractions were going strong. I refused to let them put me in the wheelchair to take me to the maternity ward -- didn't want those precious contractions to slow!

Bo Peep was born just a couple of hours later, no pitocin needed. Two pounds over the size of my other kids. I just remember the doctor calling out, "Here come the ears!"

She was born exactly 9 months after Sept. 11. Like each of my kids, I'm especially fond of her.

New Rule: No "Girl Power!" if your product isn't selling

Nia Vardalos has been making the talk show rounds, promoting her new movie My Life in Ruins. Only problem -- apparently, it's a stinker of a movie.

Solution? Sisterhood! Hollywood has decided they're not going to make movies anymore with a female lead, she says. Therefore, it behooves all women to pull together, "speak up with our wallets" and go see her movie! The state of women everywhere depends on it! Pull together, sisters! Show our power! Go see her mediocre movie!

The Sisterhood is too powerful to be used to try to sell something that folks aren't buying. Asking women to support something solely on the basis of gender dilutes the genuine power we have. Do not make "Support Women!" the go-to step to try and circumvent a failure on your part.

As a woman, I cheer for the efforts to support women's excellence. I'm concerned about a lack of quality films starring or directed by women. (I'm also concerned about the lack of quality films, period, but that's another post.) But supporting a sub-par product is not the solution.

Happily, women are smarter than that.

(Please, oh please, let Julie & Julia be good ...)