tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53415558852557336712024-03-22T01:19:14.602-04:00yes i like paul stanleypamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comBlogger262125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-41052382042472678992024-03-20T09:21:00.003-04:002024-03-20T09:21:36.925-04:00Pink Craftsman Trap House<p> "I'll build you a house."</p><p>Can it be a pink Craftsman trap house?</p><p>Where we take care of all the drug children, and there's a high rail on the rooftop lounge? You can go up at night and teach the high ones about stars, while I roam through the house swaddling the sleepy ones in soft blankets.</p><p>And can we take turns choosing the playlists - or maybe we can each choose music for different rooms? Put a pin in that for now, all I know is that I want to take care of the ones that are stoned and earnest. Oh, that's all of them? Okay, then you can have some too.</p><p>And then we tuck them in beds - or at least tight sleeping bags, so they don't roll off the roof. And we go to our own bed to sleep under a pile of sloppy dogs. </p><p>When everyone wakes, we make bacon and hydrate them with electrolyted coffee. And I will tell them about the years that, almost every night, I went to bed melancholy like them, but how in the morning, anything is possible. </p><p> Afterwards, you take them out in the sunshine and let them chop at the stump, so they feel capable and accomplished. </p><p>Then I will dress them in soft sweaters knitted by the vegan next door, and they start the day with hope. Because every morning is a clean slate in the pink craftsman trap house.<br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-28658591106025094142024-03-07T07:24:00.206-05:002024-03-08T04:57:41.335-05:00The Four Times I Met God<div>The first time I found god, I wasn't even looking. No one told me to look, I just sensed Someone. When I was a child, if I woke scared in my bed in the middle of the night, I instinctively said, "Help. Please." I was addressing someone. After a minute, I'd call out to my dad to come check on me, but even while I waited, intuitively I was urging someone to help Dad hear me and get there faster. No one told me to do that. It wasn't that my parents didn't believe in god, but we weren't the kind of home where someone explained that god was there listening. That feeling was just in me, and I could never remember at time it hadn't been. Later in church, god was introduced, but I already knew him. I'll use the pronoun him for now because that is how I knew god at that time. That church was low key, low pressure, service-oriented, and loving. I don't remember ever hearing about Hell or evangelism there. Whatever I heard fit the god that listened to me in the dark at night when I was scared.</div><div>That was my first relationship with god.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second time I found God, He was different. He was a Him who needed capital letters. I found out I had to know Jesus for access to God. I'd always felt like I could talk to God before this, but evidently, that had been temporary, because I hadn't known better. I hadn't heard about asking Jesus into my heart, so I did that. And it was important to know Jesus, so I'd be safe from Satan and Hell. Prior to that, there was some vague notion of the devil, but never as a real entity to worry about. I learned that when I was scared in bed or anywhere else, the fear was him or his evil helpers, and the only safety was to call on God to "Bind Satan in the name of Jesus." So even though God was still loving, a new unseen spiritual world was happening all around me. It was terrifying, but I thought I was mostly safe because I knew God and Jesus. Most of my prayers at that age (I'd started journaling them) were repetitious prayers for God's help, for my friends, salvation, and for safety.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next time I met God, shit got even more real. I was a young woman. I found out Satan wasn't so much the problem as was my Original Sin. Actually, humans had caused all of the existing evil in the world by listening to Satan a long time ago. Eve listened first, and as a woman, I felt extra shame for this. The Bible became a really big deal too. God wanted me to study and accept every word without question. And I did. I was good at it. I was naturally wired to thrive on a team with a mission. I loved studying, and I loved doing the right thing. I was such a good girl. I was as good a girl as I had been as a little child in my bed at night, but I didn't feel like it. Now I knew I was born filthy. It was like God had just tolerated me until I finally came around. I'd had a "grace period" like a temporary hire, but now I was in, and I needed to live accordingly. So I did. I did what I thought the Bible required of women. The men did what they thought it required of them. The pastors and the deacons and the elders did their assignments. The women couldn't hold those positions, but we could teach each other and the children, so we did. And all the time I did it, I enjoyed my work, but it also felt like a losing battle. Every mistake I made in life was no longer a mistake; it was a sin. It was a reminder that I'd been born filthy and incapable of any good without Jesus. This was supposedly the Good News. But I just felt ashamed. It felt like God and everyone else had known I was gross before I did. But I'd gone along happily, unhindered, ignorant. This type of relationship with God lasted over 20 years. My awareness and shame and anxiety only increased during this period. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The fourth time I'm meeting God is now. It's been seven years since I left the third way. The third way was ruining me. Until recently, I was scared to even say God's name because, although I knew I couldn't continue that relationship the way it was, I couldn't prove the theology wasn't true. I just knew I didn't want my kids or me in it anymore. And I couldn't risk calling on Him or even physically touching the Bible because I was so susceptible to jumping back in. It had been my life for so long that I didn't trust myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this time I'm getting to know god cautiously. I'm making sure god isn't mad if I don't use capital letters. god isn't. I'm testing the waters by using non-male pronouns for god. god doesn't mind. I'm asking god to confirm that yes, if humans were created by god and in god's image, we must have good in us even as infants. And I see that good everywhere and in everyone. And I'm finding out what so many people have said, but that I was scared to believe: There are many paths to god. I suspect god is huge, maybe a person, maybe a big pervasive love, maybe just something or someone I can't explain, but definitely the Someone that was listening to me as a scared child calling in the dark. I'm not sure why god needs to be more. I think we just thought we needed god to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because of this fourth meeting, I am finally able to look forward to many more.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-12005777058978578222024-02-20T07:25:00.006-05:002024-02-20T07:47:20.315-05:00the carolers<div style="text-align: left;">everywhere we sat, the carolers followed<br />to sing into your face<br />to sing into the side of your head<br />to sing and sing about snow falling </div><div style="text-align: left;">on the baby jesus.<br />someone at the brewery had decided</div><div style="text-align: left;">it would be an amenity<br />to have four art students move around the taproom <br />singing gustily and creating atmosphere<br />and boy, did they.<br />the atmosphere of no escape.<br />we sat three different places before<br />realizing that they too were on the move.<br />finally we went outside to the deserted firepit for quiet,<br />but guess who was finally on break.<br />they greeted us warmly as they approached with their beers.<br />i felt you tense at the sight of their smiling faces<br />"Oh don't worry," they assured us, and we </div><div style="text-align: left;">laughed a little embarrassed because maybe our faces</div><div style="text-align: left;">had given us away.<br />but just as your shoulders unhunched they said,<br />"we are fast drinkers and will get right back to business<br />as soon as we finish these."<br />and then we couldn't leave because we'd been offered <br />the gift of a lifetime<br />special for us - the lonely people at the firepit <br />suffering in all that quiet with no music except </div><div style="text-align: left;">the sweet crackle of the fire and each other's company.<br />The leader sat down his empty glass and picked up<br />a two inch binder.<br />"So, what would you like to hear?"<br />The sound of your retreating footsteps?<br />Your eyes were so big and strained that it was the<br />moment I realized that an introvert really is different <br />from an extrovert.<br />I don't remember what they sang, just that it was long</div><div style="text-align: left;">and they sang in that fancy professional way no </div><div style="text-align: left;">commoners can join in.<br />And they didn't want us to join them anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;">this was a gift.<br />No one inside was receiving such a treasure.<br />I mean, except us, when we'd been inside ten minutes ago.<br />As they finished the last clear bright note,<br />he said, "We are thinking about also doing weddings and parties. I think there's a big gap that needs filling."<br />"Mmmm" you murmured swiping your hand across</div><div style="text-align: left;">your sweaty upper lip.<br />We thanked them and referenced restrooms.<br />As we got back inside and sat down, me laughing,<br />you recovering,<br />I didn't have the heart to tell you that out of the corner</div><div style="text-align: left;">of my eye, i could see the family behind you beckoning to the carolers and waving dollar bills. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-44976807958975022602023-12-14T10:17:00.000-05:002023-12-14T10:17:04.298-05:00the tree womenthis morning i went back to my trees,<br />a small clump of nature carved into a business park.<div>tiny woods but they do the trick </div><div>even within sight of a strip mall.</div><div>oddly, i don't mind a strip mall;<br />sometimes "sprawl" just means "people nearby."</div><div>and if you turn to face the woods, you have </div><div>nature-y solitude, and when you turn around again,</div><div>you can head to Big Lots to buy a welcome mat.</div><div><div>i'm not sure whether the trees were left there<br />
or planted for aesthetics,<br />
but does it really matter?.<br />what matters, is they stand together.<br />today I named them Sisters,<br />because they're females, I can feel it.<br />
each beautiful in her own way.<br />one at a permanent lean like the friend who listens hard,</div><div>
leaning into your experience, bearing your burden with you.<div>
another one's bark is burnt and peeling, she's weathered so much </div><div>yet still stands strong.<br />
her neighbor, a short oak, leaves springing out, </div><div>is lively and alert, </div><div>ever the extrovert watching </div><div>for any chance of a party.<br />they are all still wearing their leaves, even in autumn<br />
which seems cocky of them in a fun way.<br />now that I think about it, the grove seems too established </div><div>to have been planted recently,<br />
some are older than others, which is how women </div><div>should live in a village.<br />
the older and the younger reminding each other </div><div>of wisdom and fun<br />
trading it back and forth, </div><div>laughing as they learn.<br />I stood there feeling at home,<br />
speaking to them and thinking I'd known for awhile </div><div>that were I a tree nymph,<br />the world would make more sense.<br />I was content at first enjoying them, </div><div>but eventually wanted them to speak and be sentient,<br />
wanting for a moment to be the kind of person </div><div>who believes nature speaks outright</div><div>then feeling disappointed in myself </div><div>because I don't know exactly how it works.<br />but the disappointment passed quickly, because </div><div>something is going on there,<br />
something beyond the tangible and stationary.<br />
I saw, and that matters.<br />
I see with my heart that this place is special,<br />something meant for me that maybe I uncovered--<br />and it's no small thing to begin to believe </div><div>I am not passive in this world.<br />five years ago, I came to the trees thinking of women </div><div>as fairies who might flit among the strong trunks.<br />
That's a lovely image, but now I see us as the trees themselves.<br />
something has changed in me.<br />
I felt it in my feet planted solid on the ground, </div><div>straightening my shoulders<br />
and turning my face up into the mist,<br />following my sisters' lead. </div><div>Now I've returned and see there is room</div><div>for some of the trees to be men living and sharing with us.<br />The past fear has mostly faded, and I don't want my son to miss it.</div><div>But for today, I will take my daughter, a lithe little tree in her own right,</div><div>
to play a sport with her peers.<br />
I will watch them move and play and work,<br />
laughing and smiling,<br />
noticing and encouraging each other even in the missed shots<br />
a totally communal experience,<br />a part of that little grove in their own way.<br />
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<br /></div></div></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-64769026125498167842023-11-30T07:13:00.000-05:002023-11-30T07:13:13.935-05:00daily prompt: Exile<div style="text-align: left;">who put you out here, little wanderer?<br />it wasn't god.<br />no one sent you away, and everyone wants you back.<br />come home, come home to<br />remember who you are,<br />who you were<br />who you love<br />and who you long to be.<br />we miss you.</div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-22712476593842703252023-11-21T06:00:00.007-05:002024-02-21T07:27:49.131-05:00i saw the boy who was seen<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in 12pt -0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">once there was a boy</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">who thought he was seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he was a beautiful boy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">everyone thought so....his mother told him
so..<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">everyday she'd say "you are the most
beautiful most special boy in the world. you will do great things one day. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">you
will. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">you must. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">everyone expects it."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the boy believed her.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he went to school, he went to church, and
everywhere he went, everyone agreed</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he was awfully, terribly beautiful and
special indeed.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the boy believed them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but eventually things felt uncertain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">because sometimes that happens in life.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the people telling him he was special,
seemed to not be so wise about other things. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">his mother changed like the wind,
and sometimes she was so wrong about so many other things<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">that it made the boy wonder if she might be
wrong about him as well.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it was a bit like having the softest
silkiest rug placed under him, </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and then having it jerked out.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and then placed under him, and then ripped
out again</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; display: none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt -0.75pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; display: none; font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; display: none; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and after awhile, the boy had a hard time letting her slide it back under him anymore. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">she still tried, but it
didn't work as well and it ended up being just sort of bunched around him, </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it was something at least, but it didn't block out fully the cold concrete beneath
him.</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">so he went to school, and he went to church
</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and everyone continued to say he was a beautiful special boy, </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but now he wasn't
so sure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; display: none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt -0.75pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; display: none; font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">eventually he began to become a little
sharper around the edges...it was okay because it happens with boys about that age,
but it also happens when the cold seeps in from the concrete at night</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">the boy was still beautiful and special.
but he started to replace soft with a sharp clever edge,</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and everyone loved it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">except the boy.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it worked, but something was just a bit
off.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it came easily to him, but his soft part
got covered over...</span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">like a shell over a tender soft animal...and
the animal was his sweet soft heart.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">mostly he went on, but sometimes he would
try to uncover it a bit<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but when he did and shared it<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it felt like everyone reminded him"be
clever, be beautiful, be very very special. be sharp, be smart, be very very
handsome"</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and you'd think it would feel good, and
sometimes it did, </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but sometimes the boy<o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">just wanted</span><span lang="EN"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">to be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he went on through the years, he studied,
he traveled,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he learned and enjoyed<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and did interesting things.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he adapted and pleased and accomplished
a good bit,</span><br /><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and on the whole, he was happy with his life.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it wasn't perfect, but no one's was really</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it seemed selfish to ask for more than he
had.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">i mean hard things had happened, but good
things had too</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it seemed so ungrateful to complain</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and yet...<o:p></o:p></span></div><p>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">yet...<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">something...</span></p><p><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">something, </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he couldn't quite place it, </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">tugged at his soft, soft heart.</span></p>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">his heart wanted out. and it'd had enough
hiding, and the boy, now a man, wasn't sure what to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">then the boy, now a man, finally had a
happening..</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">possibly the most significant happening of his life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">the boy, now a man, had a son of his own
and when the son arrived, the man's heart rebelled.</span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">the heart swelled so much and so fast that
it wouldn't stay put. it wasn't willing to hide in its shell in its cave anymore,<o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> and the man thought he might die from the
joy and the pain.</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he looked at the boy who was beautiful and
special</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and he touched his face and thought</span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">you. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">you.</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">are the best thing i have ever
ever done.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the boy smiled back, because why wouldn't
he believe him? he could see in the man's eyes that it was true.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but the man didn't say what <i>his</i> mother had
told <i>him</i>, "you're beautiful, you're special. do everything because you are amazing
and deserve it."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">instead he said, "Boy. Sweet Boy. You
are my heart. I didn't even know it was this soft anymore. "</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"you are beautiful and you are special
but that's not why i love you. i love you because you are you and are mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
as the boy grew older, the man saw the boy was clever,<br />
saw he was smart.<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he told the boy, </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"even though you are clever, so
clever, i love you because of your heart.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and i know there will be times when you'll
want it covered over, but i hope you will resist because a hidden heart aches.<o:p></o:p></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">it's the best part of you and you're the best
part of me,</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and we will do our best to help each other just be. </span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">okay? okay, Boy?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 12pt 0in;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and the boy just grinned and ran off to play. he believed his father, and didn't think too much about it. why would he doubt him? </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">he had only ever seen</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> his father's heart as soft and
free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-43211408465334382242023-11-15T07:29:00.001-05:002023-11-15T07:29:27.614-05:00Autumn is so noisy about it<div style="text-align: left;"> She thought she was way too clever to write about Fall.<br />Everyone writes about Fall, the leaves changing,<br />the colors exploding, the parallel to life's transitions,<br />blah, blah, blah, she refused to do it.<br />I mean, sure, everyday she and her arthritic dog <br />went out into the Fall and sniffed and noticed the changes,<br />and yeah, maybe they touched the leaves with their fingers</div><div style="text-align: left;">and nose. Perhaps they even spoke to the trees sometimes.<br />One or both of them may have rubbed a cheek<br />against the smooth bark of a birch and told her, "Don't worry,<br />about the changes, Honey, you've never looked better," <br />and maybe, just maybe the word "majestic" crossed their <br />minds. It wasn't their fault though.<br />Autumn is so noisy. </div><div style="text-align: left;">All in their faces about it.<br />The little yellow leaves especially, they know<br />what they're doing, being all adorable and sunshiney and<br />paradoxical (the dog's word, not hers).<br />The orange ones practically screaming as they fall,<br />"Loooook at uuuuusss! With your eyeballs!<br />Behold and apply the metaphor of us to your lives!<br />We shall not be ignored!"<br />So they did. She and the dog took stock,<br />because they couldn't not. They noticed their ages,<br />they noticed the children's. They noticed the<br />children weren't children anymore.<br />They saw where they'd been, and they wondered what<br />was next.<br />But only to be polite.</div><p><br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-1681441308886706852023-08-07T08:00:00.004-04:002023-08-07T08:04:38.481-04:00a guarantee for my kids, my friends, my friends' kids, and anyone who was ever a kid or friend<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AezOgTiq7iKQUV8GBTu5-USQKc88NXMx0Xw8LngHRU4Rm-cQNW1R_s9NWGKzc7AOKY54yGZ4JlzStEBqATOtahLYoliCOemaxKBlnuTiiACpdAgGCtYR7uKgbMsp1D0TamNqenYC4aDhXgID6qIlW5pPmO891u6yvxxSxNzEwp_QwZV4IvYwyvsAc2g/s2048/big%20hands%20shaking.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1625" data-original-width="2048" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AezOgTiq7iKQUV8GBTu5-USQKc88NXMx0Xw8LngHRU4Rm-cQNW1R_s9NWGKzc7AOKY54yGZ4JlzStEBqATOtahLYoliCOemaxKBlnuTiiACpdAgGCtYR7uKgbMsp1D0TamNqenYC4aDhXgID6qIlW5pPmO891u6yvxxSxNzEwp_QwZV4IvYwyvsAc2g/s320/big%20hands%20shaking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">just as soon as you feel like you have a peaceful handle on things,<br />and you've decided that your life feels good and rightish,<br />something will happen or be said or done that will feel like<br />giant hands coming in to shake and bake you.<br />it may be a person, it may be money, it may be an illness<br />or an injury, physical or emotional<br />and it will always be a surprise.<br />my first reaction is usually panic that can quickly turn to anger<br />or dismay. these make me lash out or hole up in a corner.<br />but you don't have to.<br />i read once that most strong visceral emotions last about 90 seconds.<br />wait it out, breathe, pray, journal, look at videos of baby pigs or <br />Ana de Armas or quotes your mother stuck on your bathroom mirror<br />until the initial raw reaction loses it jagged edges.<br />then remember, you have choices.<br />you have options.<br />you have a big heart, a good mind, and can say anything that<br />needs to be said with wisdom and love.<br />sometimes, by the time you get past the baby pigs and<br />the Mary Oliver mirror quotes, you realize you don't have as much <br />to say as you thought. <br />and if you do it always comes out differently.<br />but i don't mean you have to say things perfectly for them<br />to matter.<br />this is all just a long way to repeat the overused phrase of<br />"guard your peace with love."<br />it turns out there's a reason we need to hear it over and over.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-64857508184637284592023-07-25T10:30:00.001-04:002023-07-25T10:42:53.355-04:00but i already wrote you a book<div style="text-align: left;"> Everyone asked her, "When will you write a book,</div><div style="text-align: left;">can't you write a book, you write so much, why not write a book?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">and she was confused because she'd written 10,000 books already,</div><div style="text-align: left;">unedited,</div><div style="text-align: left;">first and only drafts,</div><div style="text-align: left;">each one different from the last, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">sent them from her fingertips to</div><div style="text-align: left;">the keyboard</div><div style="text-align: left;">through the cord in the wall </div><div style="text-align: left;">into the sky </div><div style="text-align: left;">to the satellite thing in the sky</div><div style="text-align: left;">where her words and stick figures bounced </div><div style="text-align: left;">back down to any welcoming phone and pair of eyes</div><div style="text-align: left;">or open heart, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">willingly and freely without even charging shipping. </div><div style="text-align: left;">she flung her arms wide and said,</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Here World - Here are my books! </div><div style="text-align: left;">I made them really short for those of you with ADHD</div><div style="text-align: left;">and/or busy schedules <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">because I love you!"</div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-23222710604385301682023-07-13T07:53:00.002-04:002023-07-13T08:31:27.470-04:00I Want a Grey Party and a Grey ChurchI'm not angry anymore. I am just trying to observe from a distance changes in my beliefs in the past seven years. <div><br /></div><div>When I was immersed in very conservative christian doctrine, it all made sense to me. But after getting a little distance, so much of it doesn't. </div><div><br /></div><div>Likewise, in an economics class in college, when the politically conservative principles were presented, they resonated with me immediately. They matched the economic views I'd heard growing up.</div><div><br /></div><div>In each situation (which overlapped timewise) I assumed the feeling of everything "clicking" and falling into place was a sign that the teachings were right, logical, and "God's will." And since that was my frame of reference at that time, that was the only thing that mattered. In hindsight, it raises questions I have to ask myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>In both teachings, there was an answer for everything. I like clear answers - and I especially wanted them at that age. At a time in my life when I was forming my worldview, I was a person who really wanted to know the right answers and do the right thing. Be a good kid. Maybe that is every person's natural bent, but I know it was for me. I always wanted to be a good student and to please.</div><div><br /></div><div>In each system above, it seems like a system may have appealed because it fit my existing prejudices and/or fears. For example, I always felt like I was falling short, so when someone told me it was because I was born sinful, it made sense. Suddenly, I had a reason. It was clear cut...in the abstract.</div><div><br /></div><div>In economics, when I heard if people were poor or unemployed, they should "pick themselves up by their own bootstraps," it made sense. Probably because I wasn't poor, but had parents who had grown up with very little, yet succeeded. I remember the professor saying, "There is a financial pie. Liberals want you to divide and distribute the finite pie. Conservatives believe we can make more pie." That fit my personal experience, so it was a clear cut solution...in the abstract.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I'd heard different doctrine and politics and lived a different experience, would I have believed those instead? I think so. Because now I have friends on every part of the political and religious spectrum. They are all ethical. They are all spiritual. They are all slightly different.</div><div><br /></div><div>This leads me to believe that worldviews are much more nuanced than most of us like. Well, let me amend that: I believe, in reality, most people have much more nuanced and grey area beliefs and politics than it appears when you see or hear the news. BUT, nuanced is hard to be noisy about.</div><div><br /></div><div>Recognizing grey areas is sort of quiet. It's hard to rally people around grey. Passion lends itself to extremes. I'm afraid it's why certain people cannot win political races. I'm afraid it's why certain churches have a bigger presence than others. Because absolutes are easier to proclaim, and proclamation generates enthusiasm.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nuanced" beliefs lend themselves to debate. And I can only speak for myself, but I'm not wired for a lot of debate. I'm wired for finding the place in the Venn diagram where everyone overlaps. Agreeing there are grey areas requires leaving space for people to vary in their beliefs. Frankly, I've not been to a conservative church or political setting where it was easy to teach a lesson saying that. However, it IS easy to say you have THE answer or THE solution.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sound like I'm criticizing the far right. If I am, I'm also criticizing the far left. I'm definitely preaching to the choir. I've swung from the farthest of both sides in my life. And in each season, I was sort of "riled up," if you know what I mean. I felt so...justified and satisfied to know what I living for and fighting for. It can feel very good to feel so sure about your position.</div><div><br /></div><div>These days, it's not as exciting in the lukewarm pool, but it takes a surprising amount of effort to remain in the grey. I'm so sweaty working to stay in the lukewarm, but it feels important to me.</div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-69780375212569850992023-06-21T08:00:00.003-04:002023-06-22T07:12:08.964-04:00Trying to Figure out Generosity vs. Lack<p>When I see people grab for things personally or professionally, I think, "Why? Calm down; there is enough for everyone." If someone gets a promotion and others respond, "Why not me?" my gut reaction is, "There will be more opportunities. Don't panic. Be happy for that person." Someone gets married, and another one's reaction is, "But when's my turn?" and I think, "Don't sweat it; half of marriages end in divorce; you'll get him the next time around, and by then, you won't want him anyway."</p><p>Lately, I've been wondering why people react differently. This morning, I read a chapter titled "What's the Story, Morning Glory?" in Adreanna Limbach's book Tea and Cake with Demons. Because you HAVE to read a chapter called that, right?</p><p>She says [very loosely quoted] the moment you wake, you are a blank slate for a moment, then the stories and views rush in reminding you who you are and are not, what you should and should not be, and often where you lack.</p><p>We each see the world through a pinprick-sized hole in a tapestry. Each of our views is shaped differently. Why do some of us feel like there is so much possibility in the world, and some of us just see the lack? Our culture, childhood, finances, race, gender, history shape how we see everything.</p><p>When I think of my surprise to someone seeing good happen and their reaction is, "Why not me?" I realize I was raised in a home hearing there was enough for everyone. And there actually was enough. I had the luxury of being given what I needed to live comfortably. Add to that, the benefit of being encouraged from childhood to aim for whatever role or job I wanted. I was constantly taught all opportunities were open to me. </p><p>This was a benefit and a privilege obviously. But I've been thinking about how it relates to generosity.</p><p>I've always thought generosity was a personality trait. But what if generosity is just present because there was always plenty to share? I'd like to believe it can be both.</p><p>My dad is the most generous person I know. Yet, he grew up with very little at times. Consequently, he never wanted our family to do without or feel less than anyone else. Ever. Because he had lived that.</p><p>It seems like he'd almost be the opposite. Another reasonable reaction would be feeling continually fearful of having enough; hoarding money or fixating on security in the future; or being risk averse professionally. But he didn't - or, if he did feel these things, he kept it private. He did not pass on that stress and fear to us.</p><p>Conversely, I look at some people who appear to have so much yet cling to it. I don't know everyone's backstory, but I know some friends who come from several generations of wealth and education and professional security, yet still seem fearful and lack generosity. What causes the difference?</p><p>How was Dad able to be so generous? Is it as simple as the fact that we were his family, so he loved us and didn't want us to experience what he knew was painful? If so, there must be some "re-mapping" or rewiring that can occur through choice. Or love. Or sheer parental instinct. But he wasn't generous only with us. So, could it not just be a personality trait?</p><p>All I know is that he rewrote the story for us. He taught us that there are always more opportunities and there is always enough to share with someone. He taught us not to fear running out. </p><p>[He may have taught us to fear and avoid a lot of other things like the undertow at the beach, having a pet monkey, and that a pressure washer can take off your toes, but not being generous].</p><p>For that I'm thankful.</p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-39376307787826292792023-04-06T07:00:00.040-04:002023-04-06T10:09:51.559-04:00Pam is Map spelled backwardsUntil I was an age much too old to admit, this was how I pictured the geography of our world:<br />
<br />
You start in South Carolina, go east until you hit Bermuda, continue east and next you hit Europe. Europe is big and exotic, so you go through Europe, Europe, Europe, Europe 'til BAM - you hit Hawaii. Then California, then farmland, farmland, farmland, Tennesee, Opryland, BAM again, you're back in South Carolina.<br />
<br />Y'all. I know.<br /><div>I own a map now.<br />
I realize now I missed quite a few continents. <br />
On the other hand, you see why I was so impressed when people said they'd backpacked through Europe.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I'm not sure why I had this small worldview. I went to school and what not. I even owned a globe. My parents gave me that globe. Yes, it had the U.S.S.R. on it, but it still had all that other stuff.<br />
<br />
Whatever the reason, when I became a parent, I decided I wanted my kids to be different.<br />
Or at least not to give Europe so much credit.<br />
So I put several maps around the house. I just want them to know how many other people and places are out there, you know? I want them to think bigger, live larger, learn more than me. I want them to realize how vast the human race is; how different yet how similar and connected. <div><br /></div><div>I want them to -- what's that? Travel, you say?</div><div>Oh hell, no. Too dangerous.</div><div>Everyone get back on the couch.</div><div><br /></div></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-75874890544910321222023-03-28T10:59:00.000-04:002023-03-29T09:42:41.155-04:00"Where do you want to eat?" "Oh, it doesn't matter." Or does it?<p>When someone asks the group, "Where should we eat?" or "What should we watch?" are you the person who always says, "Doesn't matter. Anything is fine?" If so, you may relate to the following. <br />
<br />
There are a million reasons it may not matter to you. Personally, when I say it, I mean it. I feel it, for different reasons at different times. Maybe being together is my highest priority. I've met that goal by showing up, so the details are no big deal to me. Maybe I feel there are enough opinions being expressed; why throw another mine in the ring if it's not a strong one? Maybe I feel other people care a lot, and I will save my choices for topics that mean more to me. In other words, I like to pick my battles. Am I really going to fall on the sword of La Fiesta or Mi Pueblo?<br />
<br />
This minute, some of you in High Point, North Carolina just thought a
definite choice out of those two restaurants. And some of you
out-of-towners have follow up questions about the salsa, service,
and atmosphere and are thinking, "Those things MATTER, and I need more
information, because I definitely have a preference."<br />
This message is not for you. <br />
<br />
For some of us, however, maybe - just maybe - we can't risk others not feeling 100% pleased or happy as a result of our choices. <br />
<br />
I am 48. Hopefully, the rest of you learned this lesson much younger. It's a better lesson to discuss with a child or teen, but they are on some new app we haven't found yet, so I'll talk to y'all.<br />
<br />
Some of us our natural people pleasers. That's not a bad thing. Maybe we were born more easy-going or adaptable in certain situations; I don't know. I do know that some of us need to exercise our choice muscles before they atrophy.<br />
<br />
A restaurant or movie decision may be a silly example. But if you avoid making choices in enough small areas, you may lose confidence in your capability of making choices in big areas.<br />
I did.<br />
<br />
Most of my life, it was easy for me to be around people with strong
opinions and lots of confidence. I didn't have to wrestle with
decisions if they made them for me. But I don't want to live like
that. Because guess what I've learned. Often, the person making a
decision doesn't know me or the situation as well as I do. Sometimes,
the person doesn't care about the outcome or the parties involved as much
as I do. And if you are sweating over an important decision so much that you feel frozen like a deer in the headlights, you probably care as much or more than anyone else.
That makes you a perfect person to choose the outcome. You may see your
hesitation as inability, but maybe it signifies how much you care.<br />
<br />
I've noticed something watching my children. If you watch two or more children make a group decision, you learn a lot. One kid may boldly state their choice. Another may argue with him about it. A third may offer a choice timidly, but back down quickly if the group expresses any negative response to her idea. Some people are unfazed by the negative reaction, and dig their heels in deeper; others can't handle it. </p><p><br />
My point is there is small group of people, who may not even realize why they let others make their choices. So, now I try to ask myself whether I am avoiding making choices or decisions that involve other people because:<br />
<br />
1) I believe there is a PERFECT answer and I might not guess it, or a CATASTROPHIC answer and I might nail it;<br />
<br />
2) I don't trust my own opinion as much as I trust everyone else's;<br />
<br />
3) I cannot handle that moment of "ew" on a face if I choose something that's displeasing for another person, even if they agree to it;<br />
<br />
4) I cannot tolerate possible judgement over choosing something others wouldn't choose.<br />
<br />
For the people who find choosing difficult, I offer this: When others make choices, you probably are not judging them harshly. In the dinner example, it's one meal. You are probably the type of person who thinks that too, i.e., "It's one meal; we are together. What else matters?" So you ate what they wanted for one meal, who cares? You love them. Well, turn that around, and ask yourself, don't they love you too? Aren't you worth one meal? Let them do the same for you. I don't mean take the nut allergy girl to Texas Roadhouse and roll her around on the floor in the peanut shells, but otherwise, what's the big deal? YOU do it for others all of the time, I bet. If you're a parent, you do it for your kids constantly. They are not too young to learn you need a turn choosing too.<br />
<br />
My kids are now teenagers. It feels more important than ever for them to be able to express their choices and yes's and no's in a group or intimate setting. I want them to be able to speak up for what they want or don't want even if met with opposition - especially in the face of opposition.<br />
<br />
This is a small practice, but when we are choosing a meal, an activity, etc., I ask one of my kids to choose. I tell the rest of us not to react negatively, because we will get our turns the next time. There is sometimes still eye-rolling or an "ew," but that's a good lesson too. I try not to let the chooser back down. Pressing through the "ew" is important. And more importantly than that, I want them to know they are valuable. They are as important as anyone else, and if someone has to sacrifice a bit for them, they are worth it.<br />
<br />
And you are too.</p><p></p><p>Update: I wrote this three years ago. These days, we just eat at Chipotle. Always. Everyday. And then some. <br /></p><p><br />
<br />
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</p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-68102326119144342202023-03-24T06:53:00.002-04:002023-03-24T07:28:21.731-04:00Boy Cooties: They're TreatableGrowing up, I lived on a street full of boys. I spent a lot of time playing football because that's what was available. Sometimes there'd be fights; sometimes a stray yard dart would land in your leg. You know how it is.<br />
<br />
The year everyone asked for mopeds for Christmas, I asked too. I wasn't going to be left home alone. We became a small bike gang of sixth graders. It was a good childhood.<br />
<br />
I never thought about the fact that I was friends with boys until later. My girlfriends lived a few blocks away, and I spent time with them also. Sometimes they'd bike over and wander into the testosterone fray, or ride on the back of my moped. I had as many male friends as female friends, and I'm not sure I really noticed. I didn't have brothers, and being around boys was good for me, but if I'm honest, I never noticed that either. They were just humans.<br />
<br />
In college and my 20s, working and hanging out with friends, life was the same. There were guys I dated, but also guys who were just friends. <div><br /></div><div>Once I joined the conservative church in my 20s, the rules changed.<br />
<br />
I didn't grow up in a conservative church, but I dived whole-heartedly into one in my mid 20s. That is where things started to get confusing. As a single person in that church, the doctrine discouraged dating between males and females. In fact, dating too seriously as a young adult was frowned upon. Friendship was the goal. Yes, marriage was the end goal, but you weren't really supposed to get too serious or saucy with anyone leading up to that. HOWEVER, once you snagged that spouse, all bets were off. If you ever heard the "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" book or theory, you understand what I'm saying. Ironically, as soon as you were married, you had to Kiss All Your Male Friends Goodbye.<br /><br />In the workplace, men and women were not supposed to meet alone. When people were outraged about former Vice President Mike Pence using that rule, I didn't blink. I'd heard that for years. I was also taught that a married person shouldn't sit in the car alone with someone of the opposite gender, could not send them an email or call them. You see how this impedes professional opportunities. And as for maintaining a friendship with someone of a different gender, that was impossible. But that was the point. Once you married, you weren't supposed to need anyone besides your other mom-friends and your husband.<div><br />
After I was married, and attending women's bible studies, I read books and heard discussions from women, as well as men in church leadership, that doing things like complimenting a man's outfit or haircut could lead to trouble. Patting a man on the arm or back was also a problem. The fear was that if he received this kind of affirmation from someone besides his wife, he might feel drawn towards another woman.<br />
<br />
I'd like to take this opportunity to ask if you've met my father or me. If so, your back is still recovering. We literally PAT THE LOVE INTO YOU. And if I've never noticed your clothing, you must not wear any, because my mother and I will talk to you about your outfit until you are able to escape. The Sandersons are patting and complimenting our way through life. <br /><br />Since discarding these rules in my 40s, having friends of all genders and sexualities has been crucial to my life. I need friends with different perspectives and experiences. We all do. There are questions where I really need a male perspective, or a hetero perspective or a queer perspective or well, you get the idea. Mostly, I just need lots of different humans in my life. I don't need to be worrying that some are off limits dues to gender or any other random demographic. I have a son and a daughter. As a parent, you never know which opinion or insight will help you be a better parent. <br />
<br />Going forward, I'll be friends with the humans I love and trust. I won't give them up for anyone or any rule again. I've tried to teach my son and daughter the same. Spending time with only a small, isolated portion of the human race, in my opinion, leads to more division and misunderstanding. And as far as I can tell, our country can use less of that.<br />
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<br /></div></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-49469017227079053972023-03-17T07:41:00.000-04:002023-03-17T07:41:06.264-04:00Gather 'round, Gen Z for a tale from the days of yore (1999)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmnVlFpFd-ptyLGf0mlgUy61LKm-0vMYlBpaHiUCZ3J4GXNHCk4ixFA5A_nlWTklWqNTYzj5CEh6-8qwcwgFJWQeKNyCN1_8_v8GfpIM3AE1MYzootg7SHJxWjQh5RM8fvOLLIBY92oE8K7t4j7IcaxxB6jmkUWrXHc80pFzAzOsy7mn1l32xAyDg/s1080/project_20230315_1034248-01.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmnVlFpFd-ptyLGf0mlgUy61LKm-0vMYlBpaHiUCZ3J4GXNHCk4ixFA5A_nlWTklWqNTYzj5CEh6-8qwcwgFJWQeKNyCN1_8_v8GfpIM3AE1MYzootg7SHJxWjQh5RM8fvOLLIBY92oE8K7t4j7IcaxxB6jmkUWrXHc80pFzAzOsy7mn1l32xAyDg/s320/project_20230315_1034248-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2O5sqXN1rfHzS0JjBgOxrybjPehq2oCl6M8W_MY5GCraWi8BqUG1Cey2RBgkmT-t6BBYYlvJ24oYxzeSlvR9IUetS8K89VKTJKCFKnbxC-ZSj-qGxc5Ojwe7Cx_n6VP-GyEkgNJb3giLJiGvvwWrg4m7I_e68EmtFu5myDiP5p4UxevHdEilyJB6/s1080/project_20230315_0737323-01.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2O5sqXN1rfHzS0JjBgOxrybjPehq2oCl6M8W_MY5GCraWi8BqUG1Cey2RBgkmT-t6BBYYlvJ24oYxzeSlvR9IUetS8K89VKTJKCFKnbxC-ZSj-qGxc5Ojwe7Cx_n6VP-GyEkgNJb3giLJiGvvwWrg4m7I_e68EmtFu5myDiP5p4UxevHdEilyJB6/s320/project_20230315_0737323-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7iq1MBZ3npKS49FLZCmaE7kMWUEypVAR6l0sKMCpeLXq-Qctoemqfei1Ir02_8NDrKB3kvn0NLtq9KbCJEPd9cLI9pchjFE6LdOUw1PP3D_AaT74j-vPxz544VKJ-yZWFXOdCj3ReK9b-0mXG3n0GHXaTPsNG5JMukRet7msxVrC3WIpFui6FLoo/s1080/project_20230315_0740436-01.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7iq1MBZ3npKS49FLZCmaE7kMWUEypVAR6l0sKMCpeLXq-Qctoemqfei1Ir02_8NDrKB3kvn0NLtq9KbCJEPd9cLI9pchjFE6LdOUw1PP3D_AaT74j-vPxz544VKJ-yZWFXOdCj3ReK9b-0mXG3n0GHXaTPsNG5JMukRet7msxVrC3WIpFui6FLoo/s320/project_20230315_0740436-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-44188152340650088382023-02-21T07:49:00.009-05:002023-02-21T07:55:16.000-05:00when writing helps healyou scratched and wrote <div>til the pencil shone the tiniest flame on its point, </div><div>ignited the paper as you figured and wrote, </div><div>you wrote for Elizabeth who lost her baby, </div><div>you wrote for Christy who lost her will, </div><div>you wrote for Jes who lost and lost more, </div><div>and you wrote for Stacey who hoped always, </div><div>you wrote for Kathryn even as she wrote for herself</div><div>because two pencils are better than one.</div><div>and finally Pat said, "you write for everyone but you." </div><div>so you wrote for you. </div><div>you wrote so hard you didn't feel the movement, </div><div>being carried on the shoulders of the light </div><div>and your mother
and your father and sister, </div><div>you just kept writing
and they said</div><div>"Don't stop. We're here, but we can't do it for you. </div><div>write, honey, write
you're so very close." </div><div>the pencil got shorter til it was nothing but a nub, </div><div>then a final mark.
it was finished. </div><div>and when there was nothing left to write, </div><div>you looked up from the paper, </div><div>and saw how dark it was where you'd been hunkered. </div><div>you peeked out of that cave - the entrance</div><div>had been just inches away though you hadn't </div><div>been able to see it -</div><div>there was green,
there was gold,
and all your favorite </div><div>shades of blue.
the birds cheeped a welcome, </div><div>they'd waited so long for you. </div><div>stepping one bare set of toes for the green grass, </div><div>a long ivory leg followed. </div><div>you didn't even squint in the bright light, </div><div>you were made for it and of it. </div><div>the warm ground met your first step and next. </div><div>you were home.
</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><em>come out, old troll. come out of your dark hole, old troll. </em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><em>come out into the sunlight with us,</em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><em>and let us put daisies in your hair...</em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">(from Women, by Charles Bukowski)</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic22Q8P0YC-l8ZB42616PSI_6rgMAsBXCiI3n4oTLr08aigWSP6rJKuEyZs4U5pF1mQHpn4TAOweTJH3Ktso8Gqi92RPaODOEklOEfEnqnFdmh2aCNMO3wacCIxVG1aKnmrmNJnjpifN4/s1600/stump.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic22Q8P0YC-l8ZB42616PSI_6rgMAsBXCiI3n4oTLr08aigWSP6rJKuEyZs4U5pF1mQHpn4TAOweTJH3Ktso8Gqi92RPaODOEklOEfEnqnFdmh2aCNMO3wacCIxVG1aKnmrmNJnjpifN4/s400/stump.jpg" width="332" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">from Silverstein's The Giving Tree.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-14027944312752004242023-01-22T08:09:00.009-05:002023-01-24T07:33:27.778-05:00Baloney Floater<div>There is floating, and then there is thinking you're floating.</div>When I say floating, I'm not talking about in water necessarily. I mean moving from moment to moment, allowing life and change to happen. Trying to enjoy it as opposed to resist every new thing thrown at you.<div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9RhUymmsnSdAAqa8iseSRLlc8lqVsOmCttTX7OMj6TFm2p08elqYGdPpmrO0BebCW9YiXlpOGhEZpNTx4kkYl3uml8A6t4LgNE6CnhOOWKGnVmkls6EHIDknb021K_8BE0j-8Y0IBQqxsBH3LKxdSsnrZeD8Y9OgJ0LpS-7VujO-p2GKFlmaPGKt/s3592/IMG_20230123_071654694.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3592" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9RhUymmsnSdAAqa8iseSRLlc8lqVsOmCttTX7OMj6TFm2p08elqYGdPpmrO0BebCW9YiXlpOGhEZpNTx4kkYl3uml8A6t4LgNE6CnhOOWKGnVmkls6EHIDknb021K_8BE0j-8Y0IBQqxsBH3LKxdSsnrZeD8Y9OgJ0LpS-7VujO-p2GKFlmaPGKt/s320/IMG_20230123_071654694.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Alan Watts said, "When you swim you don't grab hold of the water, because if you do, you will sink and drown. Instead you relax and float. The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."</div><div><br /></div><div>I know, it sounds terrifying, doesn't it? Not to everyone, but some of us think it sounds wretched.<br /><div>I'm what I call a Baloney Floater.</div><div><br /></div><div>Have you ever watched a child in a swim lesson learn to float on their back? You know how the swim instructor has a hand under her back and says, "Relax, I've got you. You're doing it." But instead of lying flat on her back, the child is shaped like a round piece of fried baloney, curled down in the middle with every edge reaching up. Her head is almost out of the water, neck craning to see her feet, fanny sinking, toes straining to hit the air to give herself the illusion of floating. She has zero trust that lifeguard isn't going to move his hand, but maybe if enough body parts are above water, she can fool him and herself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like that child, I think I'm floating. But then any little new plan, question, issue, event or change pops up and I feel everything in me clench and freak out. That's how I find out I was fibbing to myself. Really, I was floating with one eye on the next buoy, so when it's within reach, scramble onto it to wrap myself around it viciously until the next curve ball is thrown at me.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
That kid isn't wrong to be nervous. That lifeguard is probably a 15-year-old lifeguard who may move his hand at some point and say cheerfully, "See?! I told you that you could float!" And that child may not go back to the pool for a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now we are grownups. We don't have to trust Josh the lifeguard.</div><div>
It's okay to try to float.<br />
What do we have to lose? This buoy clinging is exhausting anyway, right?<br />
Uncurl those tight fingers, Honey.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRimHqIMjVsLL6NGJpkLcAbBQ31MB7iX9b6Eq6z0dec1lzi3mVr1YvGQzHIYTxYD7XF86VB8r_jQxnZJPS7Mvw6uvPShvvmmyc3PTBt9aWoT_igcJbBCYOPshZwK2Gz8EILpp16dboOpg/s1600/floating.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRimHqIMjVsLL6NGJpkLcAbBQ31MB7iX9b6Eq6z0dec1lzi3mVr1YvGQzHIYTxYD7XF86VB8r_jQxnZJPS7Mvw6uvPShvvmmyc3PTBt9aWoT_igcJbBCYOPshZwK2Gz8EILpp16dboOpg/s320/floating.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div></div></div></div>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-78778748933968912932023-01-05T08:07:00.005-05:002023-01-19T16:13:17.909-05:00An unedited note on editing and storytelling<p> Before I sound obnoxious, I'd like to clarify that I am my own audience for this.<span> I am the choir and the preacher. </span></p><p><span>I love a good story. I respect a great storyteller. But in the past, I've never appreciated good editing as I should. I know friends who complain they edit their own work until they paralyze themselves into never sharing it. Conversely, I'm more of the "think it, write it, t-shirt cannon it into the world mistakes and all" type. We've often said if we each had a bit of the other's style in us, we'd all be better off. Lately, though, I've come to appreciate good editing in storytelling.</span></p><p><span>When I think of writing, oral storytelling (oratory sound less creepy?), standup comedy, film, painting, photography, sculpture, any art really, editing matters more than I thought. Yes, I know that sounds obvious, but in my defense, good editors are so sneaky-good that you don't see their work.</span></p><p><span>I respect a well-told story. The story can teach a lesson or just entertain, because even in entertainment, there is the beautiful connection of human to human. </span></p><p><span>I like the storyteller to respect the listeners' time. I want them to be themselves, but if addressing a larger audience, to realize their message is more easily received if they take an extra bit of care.</span></p><p>If just interacting socially, I love off-the-cuff unfiltered stories. The unprepared part is the most fun. I'd rather hear a friend tell me a movie or book plot than see or read it myself. If you don't believe me, ask the people I pester with requests constantly. </p><p>But if a person is trying to reach a larger group, they should take time. We can't just dump and spread our wares on the metaphorical table. Well, we can, but let's not feel resentful if people stroll past. I'm not saying the dumping and spreading isn't necessary or without value. My t-shirt cannon method keeps me from going crazy most days. This is being t-shirt cannoned even; so stroll on past. I'll do what I gotta do. </p><p>I'm just saying that there is no shame in working hard to make something accessible. It's not condescending or overt. It doesn't mean you aren't creative or edgy. It's just a little effort to make the exchange more two-sided. I like to think of it as the storyteller saying, "Hey - I bet we can connect, so I worked a little harder to make it easier. for us. Here's my hand reaching out to you."</p><p>[I know of at least one writer friend who is thinking, "Welcome home, Sinner. You've finally seen the light]. </p><p><br /></p><p><span><br /></span></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-22424005054791027082022-12-18T17:40:00.003-05:002023-02-15T16:00:38.412-05:00My own worst interview to date<p>You ever meet one of those people who is trying to make interviews "fun?"</p><p>As I was finishing law school and interviewing for jobs, I met one. He seemed so grown up to me at the time, but in hindsight, he was probably about 30 and decided he'd try something different. God, did he hate me. </p><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6fIdLRBzBU3S34boz3TcmQJnDTDruc4Iq_AuYcFxcC4BeHiak3W6zl1A86Gt0OyB-4y83ncCT_21XkmbRO-gnsfmCfK0ReO1Le29sN8khk5eGCNi7NMAX--bMYbB54th09q4QQQZQwWDvF8rnWI4dg-Yv_X4Io3os7eZNCwxXHJSojTyRzTJH7vH/s720/lawyer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6fIdLRBzBU3S34boz3TcmQJnDTDruc4Iq_AuYcFxcC4BeHiak3W6zl1A86Gt0OyB-4y83ncCT_21XkmbRO-gnsfmCfK0ReO1Le29sN8khk5eGCNi7NMAX--bMYbB54th09q4QQQZQwWDvF8rnWI4dg-Yv_X4Io3os7eZNCwxXHJSojTyRzTJH7vH/s320/lawyer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ruBy3Uf-8sNX3bzFB6EFyTCfPPF58IQ33vN8QPOPwVsOxheoyjgtNGFjIA0thGRYofvFbKoDRXBJIeCWZIzXEwGMg2lMaPyFVDA6kEA3vra1KZnwLEOjUthSMrEjcQbgH-aVPPAFwq4ehrTisrVGdtYTjJ6UmT3j_TyEJzpJQ77VBzgku8QRehZX/s1080/project_20221218_1712198-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ruBy3Uf-8sNX3bzFB6EFyTCfPPF58IQ33vN8QPOPwVsOxheoyjgtNGFjIA0thGRYofvFbKoDRXBJIeCWZIzXEwGMg2lMaPyFVDA6kEA3vra1KZnwLEOjUthSMrEjcQbgH-aVPPAFwq4ehrTisrVGdtYTjJ6UmT3j_TyEJzpJQ77VBzgku8QRehZX/s320/project_20221218_1712198-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwPKQ4EkAyeWGm8BLuohZbFWRpmk3OB9sdrKVhYeUjA_kCMHDHE60tUzcpdTtOnQkHZbByErOPwvO-gAePQeND1kWEQQMLPibJ3Hitn1GDBmF_j7tzsu5ipkseSBJxCWsmzecEZnTGltCSjWCuma50_bieocBSeS7qCZ7LO0jSWcpNvdoPKQr8Ydq/s1080/project_20221218_1712356-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwPKQ4EkAyeWGm8BLuohZbFWRpmk3OB9sdrKVhYeUjA_kCMHDHE60tUzcpdTtOnQkHZbByErOPwvO-gAePQeND1kWEQQMLPibJ3Hitn1GDBmF_j7tzsu5ipkseSBJxCWsmzecEZnTGltCSjWCuma50_bieocBSeS7qCZ7LO0jSWcpNvdoPKQr8Ydq/s320/project_20221218_1712356-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY4HZIcwcV19XIDqzhNM-f8cwf4tWnNlUa13EMKAx1JcrRqQdQhSITedYO0Gy8BVrl79kx6YzEytEssCqHeeB4sk_N9jsuZnfO8DtCH5GApNv8ATVqrlZI39hoTh-PgqCt-v3SRiKLxHbfBN6OHOMkUIky0xvOfzpa4YvFgUm9ynSmK5wO_rGswiZ/s1080/project_20221218_1712586-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY4HZIcwcV19XIDqzhNM-f8cwf4tWnNlUa13EMKAx1JcrRqQdQhSITedYO0Gy8BVrl79kx6YzEytEssCqHeeB4sk_N9jsuZnfO8DtCH5GApNv8ATVqrlZI39hoTh-PgqCt-v3SRiKLxHbfBN6OHOMkUIky0xvOfzpa4YvFgUm9ynSmK5wO_rGswiZ/s320/project_20221218_1712586-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He became what I can only describe as apoplectic. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxB9TyLOYBPClnIqV4cQ2wrtp_6cMEMm4Sg8UPV8VncvPVaoqE0H1ZGfRsS8PBX6kscMIJm0OK3klFtGANNj6lLXyI22zXoUIeMZuGBzrnhivrKrMK-f41VcA0_UBEFOhPsw-Q8PrLz9Kh8ldboobHIPPfDgDktcHVSbSSfqsMpDrpyt6Euq5WkBc/s1080/project_20221218_1713375-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxB9TyLOYBPClnIqV4cQ2wrtp_6cMEMm4Sg8UPV8VncvPVaoqE0H1ZGfRsS8PBX6kscMIJm0OK3klFtGANNj6lLXyI22zXoUIeMZuGBzrnhivrKrMK-f41VcA0_UBEFOhPsw-Q8PrLz9Kh8ldboobHIPPfDgDktcHVSbSSfqsMpDrpyt6Euq5WkBc/s320/project_20221218_1713375-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcD22X4emDmG4-5SL9Ti_RDab9qzEL9cwBEnJESCwdkz9yBPgQTLz9E5e2i64TXCufzn4hjTyUguWEcvxORI7q_unjVsZm7h0sAPZGwXWLxxkzmmdvsnwStvjAE9wwdBmJbvw8tn7TSjQQu6AwFGKMAvEcujRuGUybmvwjZNGJocpt5qJDaTmWPM9/s1080/project_20221218_1713186-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcD22X4emDmG4-5SL9Ti_RDab9qzEL9cwBEnJESCwdkz9yBPgQTLz9E5e2i64TXCufzn4hjTyUguWEcvxORI7q_unjVsZm7h0sAPZGwXWLxxkzmmdvsnwStvjAE9wwdBmJbvw8tn7TSjQQu6AwFGKMAvEcujRuGUybmvwjZNGJocpt5qJDaTmWPM9/s320/project_20221218_1713186-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAiMZOblXfOeghQue8M1N2qDp_JHd_1PtF5z-Ns6WFos3Rdyr0b2FCP-D_-T9Cr9PQFngVOFgU2b-vjIAIkOyJR6ngHV8dhO_SX876pRwAuvWHaRqfkDKh-3_KZga2w2VKydQI9R7F0erLWPrWamOqCPtTL3sRahKAdLcRBCegZG--p1oxwNt8D5mZ/s1080/project_20221218_1714082-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAiMZOblXfOeghQue8M1N2qDp_JHd_1PtF5z-Ns6WFos3Rdyr0b2FCP-D_-T9Cr9PQFngVOFgU2b-vjIAIkOyJR6ngHV8dhO_SX876pRwAuvWHaRqfkDKh-3_KZga2w2VKydQI9R7F0erLWPrWamOqCPtTL3sRahKAdLcRBCegZG--p1oxwNt8D5mZ/s320/project_20221218_1714082-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIy01irAsTQ7yFuymrtNLk8eKENs6PfUWtldJIlrGDmSQLifjWckgmhESVYz-vvmVYwYi-EGd-yLEoLkOcF_XhD7VvgrU5URwuvY4tm9_JmEOXqMerGJEyCVVDvDQbo5K9W7jO-XVzmQe4As6hrPa7FqdqKduSHZYS-Thhq2O0DnHEKco8BZVvqR9a/s1080/project_20221218_1714233-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHzRElMy4nE15UfnYQwwMA9n8UDL0o2HsIgkBDgP0mqk0FJNdf_7oNLm1z1txw-QN2jMime2ZogUcoO-rSLamYu3NvnhnW43RzOjFz2hZoq8P_ajHK8qGtaggYJMFGxGx091s0Nah1nj-HtqdteeA2V2MA-Rjav-1Jz5VCcw1CkwLhY-vxKt6HR6E/s1080/project_20221218_1715347-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHzRElMy4nE15UfnYQwwMA9n8UDL0o2HsIgkBDgP0mqk0FJNdf_7oNLm1z1txw-QN2jMime2ZogUcoO-rSLamYu3NvnhnW43RzOjFz2hZoq8P_ajHK8qGtaggYJMFGxGx091s0Nah1nj-HtqdteeA2V2MA-Rjav-1Jz5VCcw1CkwLhY-vxKt6HR6E/s320/project_20221218_1715347-01.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unfortunately, in reality, I gave only the first answer. I'm normally a big fan or getting creative and silly, but you know how it is; you get your smart girl navy suit on, you practice faking that you understand the Uniform Commercial Code, and you walk into the interview in your sensible heels. You aren't in the right mindset for some newly-adulted-grownup to try to get fun and spicy with his questions. It's too bad really. He'd have loved the magical corn dogs. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-61233898379722722152022-12-13T14:33:00.002-05:002022-12-13T14:33:12.091-05:00rilke - a birthday poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-69880552124713531942022-11-19T07:13:00.016-05:002023-03-29T09:24:12.698-04:00the almost sleepover<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9a77ScUADB4R-id095AT7v1KZqL4Uzw9LfmyruQibTlsFeByIlbvd_kD9RckfrXYQsvUt51e7paE05C7M7XIvJv5Prxl6PI3iXIvUt3WNCWVxUm-T-SI7pb6ASo5Tw5-JFKirBfJt-j2IZLF5k0E6fuxRWzh0Pli-o8ievZ3WLR3KbwLInQ0PV8c/s1080/lamb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9a77ScUADB4R-id095AT7v1KZqL4Uzw9LfmyruQibTlsFeByIlbvd_kD9RckfrXYQsvUt51e7paE05C7M7XIvJv5Prxl6PI3iXIvUt3WNCWVxUm-T-SI7pb6ASo5Tw5-JFKirBfJt-j2IZLF5k0E6fuxRWzh0Pli-o8ievZ3WLR3KbwLInQ0PV8c/s320/lamb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was possible she received too much affirmation as a child. </p><p>What else could explain the way the little bedwetter trotted off so confidently to sleepovers? Was it because deep down she knew she'd never stay at that sleepover all night?</p><p>Whatever the reason, her family and the sleepover friend's family went through the ruse every time.</p><p>She - let's call her Lamb Panderson, she's no one you know - and Laura (the most common victim) would play for hours, eat dinner with the family, and watch the sun set as if all was well. When it got late enough for bed, Lamb would wait as her friend's mother put a rubber sheet under the fitted sheet on the double bed. Yes, it was a little awkward because obviously the sheet hadn't been there the night before for Laura, but it wasn't excruciating or anything. Laura's mom was a sweet woman who made it seem casual as if she moved around the house nightly waterproofing various furniture.</p><p>For such a social kid, Lamb was definitely a homebody. Kids came to her house more often than not. Her parents welcomed and fed everyone, and tried to keep them happy. That was the way she liked it. The adventurous friends seemed fine with it, but sooner or later the sleepover invitation would come, and her mom would give her The Talk. The Talk was brief and the message was simple: "You have to take turns sometimes. They want sleepovers at their houses too, Honey," and "I'll call ahead about the rubber sheet." And that was how she'd end up at Laura's.</p><p>Sighing, the little bedwetter would pack her little bag with mostly good intentions, a healthy side of candy, and head to stay at the friend's house the entire night this time.</p><p>However, as her dad drove her to Laura's, he'd give her The Other Talk. This message was simple and less brief: "If you want to come home at any time, just call. ANY TIME. I'm only five minutes away and can come get you. I mean, if at ANY TIME YOU HAPPEN TO THINK 'Hey, I'd rather sleep in my own bed,' you just tell Laura's mom - she won't mind waking up at ANY HOUR of the night - and I will zoom over here and rescue you from this place called Not Home." Did I mention the dad also preferred everyone at home together? The little apple fell not far from the 6'4" tree. </p><p>Fortunately, Laura's mom never woke up in the middle of the night, not because Lamb stayed, but because the ruse usually ended by 10pm as soon as they were in bed and the lights were out. Mysteriously, the dark usually triggered a stomachache, easily blamed on aforementioned candy. That's why the packing of the bag was crucial. In truth, little Lamb could hold her candy. She had the constitution of a junk yard dog. Her father knew this, but there was no reason for other families to know. And by 10:15pm, Lamb was home and happy while Laura tried to sleep on that crinkly rubber sheet.</p><p>The next morning, Lamb would appear for breakfast, her mom would sigh and look at the dad and roll her eyes. He'd say, "What? She wanted to come home." They'd all eat pancakes and pretend next time might the charm.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-89979662711436514132022-11-01T10:15:00.034-04:002022-11-06T18:16:10.632-05:00Leaving Calvin & Conservative Theology<p>I came to Calvin at the age of 24 with a fist full of petals, and left him in my 40s with an empty tulip stem. If you've studied Calvinism, you know the TULIP acronym. If you haven't, don't sweat it. My point is, I didn't just come to god; I came to Calvinism specifically.</p><p>Initially, the reasons this theology felt horribly right was that it teaches: 1) You are born full of sin. I'd always been writhing around in guilt and regrets, so this part came easy; and 2) It teaches you can be rescued from all that filth. If you receive the goodness, you are accepted. I've always been a glutton for acceptance, gold stars and for someone to just take a rubber stamp to my forehead that says, "YOU'RE OKAY." So, once through those two gates, I was off and running. </p><p>I learned the term "Sola Scriptura." (Yes, there was Latin. I was in word-nerd heaven). It means Scripture Alone. Believe ALL of the bible and ONLY the bible. It's the only text you need, and don't go sticking any weird funny extra books in the back like those Catholics. We learned the worst thing you can do is pick and choose parts of the bible to believe. This is dangerous, sinful, and self-indulgent - a way to let people off the hook for rules they don't want to follow. "Sola" means all or nothing.</p><p> We learned that if a part of the bible sounds awful, outdated, or wrong, it's because you don't understand it correctly. Study harder, pray for understanding, and learn the context. And if that doesn't work, it's because there are parts we cannot understand with our earthly-bound minds and limitations. Someday in heaven, you'll understand.</p><p>For many years, I woke early to study the bible. I had Greek words on flash cards and concordances at the ready. And honestly, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed searching for information to deepen my understanding of the bible and that specific worldview. </p><p>I was hardcore. Just how hardcore I was would be funny, if it weren't such a serious subject. For example, I broke up with a boy who was in seminary who implied Adam and Eve might not be a literal historical story. He is an Episcopal priest now.</p><p>The first time I met the man who'd later become my father-in-law, I debated with him saying that salvation alone wasn't enough. HOW you came to salvation was crucial. If you believed you got saved through free will vs predestination, you might be saved, but you were in danger. If you dared think you had one iota to do with your own coming TO god, you might think you had one iota of power in your walk WITH god going forward. [Cue John Calvin's slow clap in the distance].<br /></p><p>On a lighter note, once while driving and listening to Dave Matthews' "Crush," I flung the CD out the window because I was just feeling too ungodly about how sexy I thought he was. It was the 90s, so I'd managed to join just in time for the Purity Movement. I know. And it only gets worse.</p><p>I looked down on the parents, adults and church that raised me before my 20s, and questioned their salvation because it was not Calvinist enough by my new standards. The adults that took a younger Pam on mission trips to build houses for the poor became (in my mind) less-than and possibly even "unsaved" because their theology and bible interpretation was too "liberal." I compared them to my new pastors and elders who seemed to spend time with their heads stuck in Greek and Hebrew texts. The new ones gave us old books like Brother Lawrence's "Practicing the Presence of God" about a monk loving god through serving by simple tasks like peeling potatoes. Oddly, I'm pretty sure the old church and my parents had peeled more metaphorical potatoes than the new one. <br /></p><p>In the new church, we liked to discuss Thomas Merton over craft beers feeling superior that we didn't follow the over-simplified rules of the Baptist teetotalers. We knew all the "right" heady theologians to study. I<span> considered us</span> the graduate school of Christianity. No one else was saying that, by the way. That was my own arrogance, but it certainly feels like an elite and entitled club when I describe it. </p><p>Yet, under all of the study, a foundation of anxiety was being laid. </p><p>A deep mistrust of self grew within me. A large part of the theology is that your "flesh" and heart are deceitful, so you assume most of your thoughts or desires are tainted by sin. After all, you came to god full of sin. Yes, you get to go to heaven, but your sinful nature is still vying for control. Therefore, don't trust your inner voice or gut. This led to a constant feeling of uncertainty. But since doubting your own instincts is encouraged, in a strange way, the more uneasy I felt, the more I thought I was growing spiritually.</p><p>As for the mystery of Sola Scriptura, and supporting the infallibility of the bible, I was in a closed loop of reasoning with no room for disagreement. Studying is encouraged, but not really outside of the doctrine itself. I dove deep, but not wide. I dove down, but not outside the pond - the pond being the loop that states the bible is unequivocally accurate, the premise over riding all my study. </p><p>Today, it is my opinion that picking and choosing parts of the bible is necessary IF you're going to read it at all. I don't think you have to read it to have a relationship with god or any other kind of spiritual life. But IF you're going to read the bible, I think you should give yourself permission to drop that "sola." </p><p>I'm a bit jealous of the people who are able to be in a church while overlooking parts they might not agree with exactly. I don't think that's bad. But I haven't been in a conservative church where you could question the core beliefs and still really be "n the fold." I know there are liberal churches where you can, but I'm a bit gun shy on church generally these days. In addition, my personality just isn't cut out for being "the questioner" in a group. I've got friends who can handle it. I am still learning to exercise my muscles of choice and questioning after years of allowing them to atrophy. Possibly, I never developed them in the first place.</p><p>Some might say I never truly understood grace, or that I don't understand the bible or doctrine correctly. I disagree. I loved them both whole-heartedly. They don't know how I handed over everything to pursue god and that theology. I was willing to suspend all prior belief and control over my life.</p><p>And yet, I have some grace for that young Pam. Like everyone else in the world, even the Brother Lawrence readers, she was just trying to survive life. And I still have a soft spot in my heart for that little monk Lawrence. The problem is that I saw a neat, tidy "right" answer to life in that theology and jumped in. Neat, tidy answers are comforting, especially for certain personality types. I think lots of us have student-type, over-thinking personalities, mixed with a need for clear answers. The unknowns in life are uncomfortable, and that discomfort is harder for some of us. Maybe others of us don't think we possess a lot of good to begin with, so hearing about Martin Luther singing "From the Depths of Woe" hits a nerve that feels good to have hit. I can really lean into some woe, y'all.</p><p>Everyone needs a coping mechanism for life. Even our bodies instinctively find ways to adapt and survive, and we wouldn't criticize our bodies for that, would we? For me, during those decades, as I spent more time in my head studying and not trusting my own body or mind, I began a dissociation of sorts. I was so good at seeing the world in two different planes: The earthly and the spiritual. I was so good, that I tipped right over into the spiritual and missed some important things in the earthly. It's easier to ignore some injustices in the world if you believe this life is just a prequel to eternity. <br /></p><p>Maybe I shouldn't spend too much time analyzing the past. I don't want "anti-anything" to become my new modus operandi. How would that be better than what I described above? However, I'd say it's worth spending a morning pondering over coffee, in hopes that I don't slip back into some version of it.</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6f1LMBfhrHZ0MjQ_BlgtF84JwJlTBK_zdeaTE8LcnSr3X1RuJdz81mvPdlkkR368NJaXOuKo7SAVXxxdzmsivtPdh3pwbsptUdgrTWL7r8Dat9GtAQ6Plzl12tzXUyHtTIYGdvvAJUtU4bd2jx2NpnqnGGALBv7zz9mWYWkPm3qvQq1_265kdUjn/s1405/brain.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1302" data-original-width="1405" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6f1LMBfhrHZ0MjQ_BlgtF84JwJlTBK_zdeaTE8LcnSr3X1RuJdz81mvPdlkkR368NJaXOuKo7SAVXxxdzmsivtPdh3pwbsptUdgrTWL7r8Dat9GtAQ6Plzl12tzXUyHtTIYGdvvAJUtU4bd2jx2NpnqnGGALBv7zz9mWYWkPm3qvQq1_265kdUjn/s320/brain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spent so much time in my head, that I almost forgot I had a body at all<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-82478635177219700582022-07-07T19:00:00.003-04:002022-07-09T06:47:56.872-04:00don't worry the thread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /> </p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"worry"</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>definition #2: <span class="sb-2"><span class="dt">to touch or disturb something repeatedly </span></span></i></div><p>
<br />
people are not threads to worry and pull and twirl around your finger.</p><p>when i was young and i'd snag a favorite sweater, </p><div style="text-align: left;">
my mother would find her seam ripper,</div><div style="text-align: left;">
using the very tip of that tiny harpoon, she'd restore not ruin.</div><div style="text-align: left;">
she'd wrap the loose thread around that metal prong twice, </div><div style="text-align: left;">neatly tuck it back into the weaving,<br />
hidden.<br />
wholly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">but people are not sweaters.</div><div style="text-align: left;">they're not the threads of your well-being.</div><div style="text-align: left;">they are not your source of peace. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">try not to pull on, pick at, or shake them</div><div style="text-align: left;">trying to make them </div><div style="text-align: left;">give you what you want;</div><div style="text-align: left;">the exact answer that you want; <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the response you think you need</div><div style="text-align: left;">at the time that you want; <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">which, by the way, is always five minutes ago.</div><p>do not re-worry the thread.<br />
let it be.<br />
tuck it back in, or snip it away,</p><p>not everyone is forever.<br />
and if you're not sure which,<br />
sit on your hands til you know. <br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">
in the meantime, don't pull and tug simply because </div><div style="text-align: left;">you've never learned a better way.</div><div style="text-align: left;">you can learn new ways. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">there are books (god, so many books),</div><div style="text-align: left;">counselors cropping up on instagram nightly</div><div style="text-align: left;">each one desperately obsessed with your well-being. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">there are people who've lived longer than you</div><div style="text-align: left;">and know things...<br /></div><p>
do you really believe you are the first without the tools? </p><p>listen, little snowflake, this is why there are professionals.<br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">
they're here for the threads; they're here for the worriers.<br />
you didn't know any better when you were younger, </div><div style="text-align: left;">it's forgivable,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and you don't have to be perfect now.<br />
but at least now we know and we can practice better ways.</div><div style="text-align: left;">better for them, and better for us. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">love,</div><div style="text-align: left;">a fellow snowflake 💙</div><p style="text-align: left;">
<br />
. </p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-28856503820227200942022-06-25T08:18:00.010-04:002022-06-25T08:26:29.715-04:00June 24, 2022 Roe v Wade Overturned<p>Today is a different morning. It has to be, because I can't live everyday like I did yesterday. The shock, fear, outrage and anxiety -- it is important and necessary, but if I live in it everyday, I will be exhausted. I assumed I'd wake feeling hungover from all of it. Strangely, I feel the tiniest wee smallest bit of hope. Maybe it's my mind tricking me for self-preservation, but I will take it. Because this tiny bit of relief may be what I need to go forward and consider next steps.</p><p>For the first time in five years, I observed a group prayer. I can't quite say I participated, but I did the part I could handle which was just be there. Since leaving the conservative church, I have feared and avoided any church-like setting for many reasons. Even the most liberal ones scared me. But yesterday, I listened to a female pastor pray with nearly 1000 people who were outraged and heartbroken over the ruling. I'm not sure I knew that was possible in a church because... </p><p>in many other prayer groups, people were praying with gratitude and relief because they truly believe their god's will was done in overturning Roe v. Wade. And here's the thing: Both groups have good people in it who earnestly are trying to do what is right. That scares me. Because how do two such dichotomous perspectives ever come to terms with each other?</p><p>I see the younger generation outraged and fighting against this ruling and I am SO THANKFUL FOR YOU. Fight and work and speak! I'm so glad for your energy and even your anger. Do it, kids. Change it.</p><p>For me though, at least for today, I feel like my past is leading me to look at and consider what I read this week:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv2zXykhoNFHdMcnnm8BKNTZ_d8Xn8Xq8s6tg83RLnb7RdferpchMh_j-doYbrXXbmlGG3WicOc_IU4MRX9nRe4bBqeAliEW6cpY026V6fgOp6ZIZhy_W57RBvfCWxAxMbKLef_xVlN4rpkX7RE7Csg-TeWWue1IMjKhHfEeQA8gWpCVZAZl_Xqc6/s2048/listening.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv2zXykhoNFHdMcnnm8BKNTZ_d8Xn8Xq8s6tg83RLnb7RdferpchMh_j-doYbrXXbmlGG3WicOc_IU4MRX9nRe4bBqeAliEW6cpY026V6fgOp6ZIZhy_W57RBvfCWxAxMbKLef_xVlN4rpkX7RE7Csg-TeWWue1IMjKhHfEeQA8gWpCVZAZl_Xqc6/w315-h268/listening.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5341555885255733671.post-1093742973528250362022-05-23T10:43:00.008-04:002022-05-23T15:06:22.336-04:00future you<p>I read a book that asked me to picture my future self. In ten years, how did I want to look? What did I want to be like? If I were free to grow and be truly, fully myself, what would I want? So I tried to picture myself completely free of other people's expectations. At first, I pictured myself as one of those women in soft flowy comfortable clothes that curl themselves up in a chair with their feet under them and listen to you talk and make you feel good and offer you tea that does something for "gut health," and behind them are colorful pictures on the wall and their homes are eclectic and fun and exciting but somehow still calming. And I like those women. But then I thought about how I hate clutter and tea and clothes without defined waists, and decided maybe I don't want to BE that woman as much as VISIT that woman. </p><p> So I tried again to imagine future me, and I started to worry that maybe if you let me feel really REALLY free, I might get really really weird. And not a fun weird. Left to my own devices, maybe I'd walk around town with a sketch pad, full of stick people with orange ponytails. Maybe I'd set up an easel on the corner and offer to do caricatures for passersby, but I'd just draw THEM as stick people with orange ponytails, because that would make me laugh. And I'd require payment in candy. And if I got too comfortable, in every store I visited, I'd be patting cashiers on the hand saying, "You're doing a good job, Honey," which is cute if you're 90, but maybe creepy before 90. </p><p>And what if I started feeling so free I wore a live cat for a hat, or maybe a fluffy pomeranian. Maybe I'd finally find my left wireless earbud and roam around singing out loud with my music - which is what I do already when I'm running on a street with loud traffic, so I can tell I'm only a few years away. <br /></p><p>And what if I felt sooo free that I always wear knee socks and sweaters no matter the season, bc that's what I basically always wish I had on now, and a hat with earflaps on the days the I can't find the cat, bc I hate and i mean HATE for any part of me to be cold. What if I patted trees as I passed them, and talked to cute patches of moss, and trained a robin to ride on my shoulder like the old man in The Secret Garden... </p><p>and it's times like these that I just wonder if maybe too much freedom is frightening. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XC5JU3_1Fi7qm5-QVSlwKR3Db1fIjkE_6DACEEJmvjoRTuws4fJ4W0-0qURiIhsJ1ri2HlcHtWbbZSLpmuXEdpEp3f49NpNA2wqJ43BjABAzZIRtDhCUgfyoZM1XUUiomYEhuRYVMlMhlXYyH5dpyLfjR-yyfqviQ6ZmOGNrq6TJXjaHEVzIZNvn/s1080/socks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XC5JU3_1Fi7qm5-QVSlwKR3Db1fIjkE_6DACEEJmvjoRTuws4fJ4W0-0qURiIhsJ1ri2HlcHtWbbZSLpmuXEdpEp3f49NpNA2wqJ43BjABAzZIRtDhCUgfyoZM1XUUiomYEhuRYVMlMhlXYyH5dpyLfjR-yyfqviQ6ZmOGNrq6TJXjaHEVzIZNvn/s320/socks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> <br /></p>pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08945513783292459491noreply@blogger.com