for Gerard Manley Hopkins

Huh.  Here's a poem I found that said "draft".  I remember writing it, but I totally forgot about it.  It's dated 4/1/17.   I wonder how many other drafts I have in here.

It seems somehow important and relevant that I discovered it TODAY, being the fourth of July and all.  I remember I was trying to copy a form (from Gerard Manley Hopkins) and that it involved rhyming, and it was hard, but rewarding.  Anyway, happy whatever, America!


Glory be to God for dappled beings —
    For humans of couple-color;
        For the immigrants' brindled descendants;
Butt-dimpled newborns who cross borders in slings;
    Deserts dotted with dolor;
        Following the Pied Piper of Independence;
Vainglorious attempts at Euclidian geometry;
    Whatever is not-so-evenly divided (smaller);
        Freckled, splotched, mottled, transcendent;
He knows that beauty does not rely on symmetry:
                         Praise Him.


 
     

Vespers for the Voiceless

If I were to commission a stained-glass window for my Church,
It would be a single Nightingale upon a beech branch in springtime.
Her tongueless trills would be the Hymns we would sing at sundown—
No noticeable pattern, only an algorithm inherited from the Ancients.

Our Priestess wears her sandy plumage as a sacred vestment,
Her legitimate lineage endows her with the power to Pardon.
Her mutilated blessings would help us to forgive our Tereusian Trespassers,
And dare her Congregation to turn laments into Praise.

words of wisdom

My more-often-than-not awesome husband, while reclining in bed, in response to our discussion of The Chosen in which I said, "You know, that was the first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me", promptly retorted:

"The first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me was Mad Magazine.

a penny for your thoughts

I poured 18,953 pennies out of six different containers into the counting machine at Air Academy Federal Credit Union today. Ok, so there were a few nickels and dimes, but for the most part, people did as my students asked and only put in pennies.

Back in September, my students and I began reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Journey to Change the World...One Child at a Time, the Young Readers edition of Greg Mortenson's bestseller. It has everything a Pre-GED diverse adult education class could ever want: perfect reading level (6/7th grade), the power of persistence, a hero, family, the value of education, religion, current events, foreign lands, guns, war, hope. We have had some amazing class discussions this semester. There were many times when I just let them go and listened....

After watching some videos, my students became ever more interested and inspired to do something. So I let them.

Pennies for Peace is deceptively simple: collect pennies and donate them to help build more schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan. But the lessons learned by those who plan and carry out and participate in the penny collecting go deep. My students range in age from 17-54, and they are either immigrants for whom English is their second language, or native speakers for whom the system simply never worked. For most of them, philanthropic giving is the absolute last thing on their minds. Some of the other teachers were even leery of the idea of a penny drive at first, because they didn't want to impose upon the already economically fragile lives of many of our students.

What I found, however, is that having the opportunity to be the GIVER is so very empowering! Remembering that someone is struggling even more than you can be a great motivator to not give up yourself. Alone, we can't do much, but together, we can. I know it sounds cheesy, and it is, but it's REAL. Just like the Velveteen Rabbit.

And organizing a campaign is a way to learn all kinds of real-life, valuable skills (NONE of which I wrote an objective on the board for, mind you).

Tomorrow, the "Pennies for Peace Committee" will make an on-line donation to the Central Asia Institute for $189.53. A drop in the ocean. Their drop. Who knows how far the ripples will travel.

i could listen to her all day

"the blood is the life!"

Blood.  The Elixir of Life.  Always moving, it carries oxygen through our veins, flows out in menses, brings color to our cheeks, makes sex enjoyable, keeps us warm, and is always red, never blue.  I will never, ever again take it for granted.

I understand now, the Vampire's need.  For I have sucked another's blood and have found it to be to my liking.

The Christians drink, symbolically anyway, the blood of Christ.  Catholics take it a little further. I have often wondered about this paradoxically shared love of blood among seeming opponents. Perhaps Vampires and Christians are really not that different after all. 

I have just spent three nights in a hospital bed.  I found myself there after I finally realized on the day after Christmas that the way I had been feeling for the past couple of days was definitely not normal, even for a chemotherapy patient.  Unable to stand in the shower for any length of time, with chills that wouldn't end, and an inability to accomplish even simple tasks, I finally checked my temp. (102.9 at its highest) and called the doctor.  

Which landed me in the hospital for three nights, due to having next to zero white blood cells, and a dangerously low red blood count.  There I lay, hooked up to IV antibiotics, watching Gremlins and Westside Story and other great classics on the AMC, playing Quiddler, and finishing a fantastic novel.

On the third day, they gave me two blood transfusions.  I immediately felt like a new person, with a new life. Only slightly more blood-thirsty.  

So if you see me on some dark night, staring at you rather hungrily, please take precautions.  

Consider yourself warned.

(Title quote from Bram Stoker's Dracula)

from somewhere safe

Let not your heart be disturbed.

Do not fear this sickness, nor any other sickness or anguish.

Am I not here, who is your mother?

Are you not under my protection?

Am I not your health?

Are you not happily within my fold?

What else do you wish?

Do not grieve nor be disturbed for anything.

-Our Lady of Guadalupe

today is her day

the truth about chemo

It's Friday night, and I am clawing my way up out of Hades. Having descended into hell, I am now ascending into, if not heaven, at least something remarkably better than hell. We hear much about "The Resurrection", as if it were a static event, as if one went from being dead to being alive in an instantaneous flash of golden light. Not so.

Chemotherapy is like dying and being reborn every two weeks. Monday is my Chemo Day. Wednesday is my Good Friday. Friday is my Easter. The requisite three days spent entombed. You slowly fall into a catatonic state of being able to do absolutely nothing. It's like the first trimester of pregnancy, with a good dose of flu, hangover, and depression heaped on top for good measure. "Don't touch me." "Don't talk so loud." "Slow down." When you move at the speed of the elder and the toddler, you realize that the world moves much too quickly. The grocery store is a maze of people moving too fast, talking too loud, buying too much stuff....... so you just don't go. The sight of children running on the front lawn of their elementary school is a scene from another lifetime, and you can't quite comprehend it. Everything is seen through a haze. The body becomes so heavy that to lift it out of the chair is a monumental task. You see the dirty dishes, but are absolutely powerless to lift one pinky to even open the dishwasher.

It's only for three days. But still.

And now, on Saturday morning, the sun is shining and I feel like going for a walk and I'll probably (gasp!) go contradancing tonight. I can read. I want to make soup and plan my son's birthday party and do the laundry and pay the bills(overdue for the first time in years). The living room is filled with golden orange light. I am resurrected. The memory of the past three days slowly slips away. I am nearly giddy with gratitude for the ability to see clearly.

I think I may possibly have a better understanding of what bipolar disorder must feel like.

The first two rounds were bad, but at least then it was novel, something new. I thought I'd try different things to see what works, what doesn't. I thought of it as a great experiment, with myself as the subject. Now, after number three, I see clearly the work that is before me. The fun is over. The hair is gone. I have to do this nine more times. We are entering the dark days of winter, and never before have I felt such a need to withdraw, to curl up, to truly experience the dark night of the soul. I go willingly, because there is much work to be done there, and many things to be learned. There is no way around, under, or over. No shortcuts. No portals to other dimensions. There is only me, and a long dark tunnel that must be traversed.

moving meditation

I've been trying to meditate lately........to no avail. Sitting quietly and peacefully is attainable, but it's my mind that can't sit still.

Contradancing, I believe, achieves the same effect: an inner calm, an outer joy, a mindful mindlessness. There comes a moment in the dance when you are so focused that you become lost, and all attachment to rational thought ceases. Linear history dissolves into timelessness, and smiling faces abound. It is as close as I have ever come to the divine. (Well.... except for maybe that Dead show in Eugene about 20 years ago!)

There are many different definitions and descriptions of contradancing, but this one is by far my favorite:
"A contra dance is like an amusement park ride we make for ourselves." --Unknown
I like this one as well:
"Contra dance is a form of dance that thrusts a different person of the opposite sex into your arms every 30 seconds."

Here we are in Denver last Friday night.



And here's a short clip that truly captures the diversity of dancers and the spirit of fun. I dare you to NOT be smiling at the end of the next two minutes:



I sometimes believe that if the whole world would contradance, we just might have a shot at world peace.

Find a dance in your neck of the woods

song shuffle

I think this little game was invented by someone at least 20 years younger than me, but still, I think it's going to be fun. I first read Kate's answers many months ago, and at that time I thought to myself, "Hmm... I think I'd like to do that someday." Many things have come to pass between then and now, but the song shuffle has always been in the back of my mind. Now its time has come.

I love the way randomness often reveals truths. Or at least gives us another lense with which to see ourselves. Or makes absolutely no sense at all. Kind of like Tarot or Astrology or a Magic 8 Ball.

The way this works: Hit "shuffle" on your iPod, and the names of the songs as they fall in the random sequence are the answers to the questions. Here goes.......

1. How would you describe yourself?
Che Doce Simpatia.... Ecco Megl'orti Tuoi (Cecilia Bartolli)

Well, I guess what this means is that I don't really, even yet, understand myself! I'm still working on the translation.
Simpatia...... sympathy according to the translation site I just consulted. That makes sense. I seem to be sympathetic to the whole world.

2. What do you like in a guy / girl?
Vigilante Man (Burns Sisters)

Hmmmmmm...... perhaps I do like to be looked after much more than I would ever freely admit.

3. What is your motto?
Paper Kitten Nightmare (Margot & the Nuclear So and So's)

Now those are some absurdist words to live by. Perhaps I should make them my motto.

4. What do your friends think of you?
In the Garden (Dolores O'Riorden)

Not sure about this one. I keep thinking of biblical gardens (I can't help it, I was a religious studies major) ...... Eden....... Gethsemane...... they weren't exactly conducive to friendship now, were they? How about the garden in my backyard, then, where everyone is welcome.........

5. What do you think about often?
On a Freezing Chicago Street (Margot & the Nuclear So and So's)

Yeah, that's me..... just daydreaming away about being cold and lost in an unfamiliar city.

..... Actually, now that I think about it, being lost in unfamiliar places really IS something I daydream about. It's the cold part I can't quite handle.

6. What do your parents think of you?
Your Heart is an Empty Room (Death Cab for Cutie)

Well, my mom's dead, and I'm pretty sure she never would have said this about me. My dad, however, might very well try to enlighten me with some sort of wise saying that has this phrase in it.

7. What do you think of your best friend?
Cannonball (Damien Rice)

No idea.

8. What do you think of the person you like?
Different Names for the Same Thing (Death Cab for Cutie)

Hahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! Over and over and over again.

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Sleep Don't Weep (Damien Rice)

A good night's sleep would be most welcome.

10. What do you think when you see a person you like?
Lascia La Spina, Cogli La Rosa (Cecilia Bartolli)

I will tell you that listening to this song will tear your heart into a million little pieces.....

11. What song will they play at your wedding?
What I Be (Michael Franti and Spearhead)

Well, my wedding is now nearly 13 years in the past. I will say, however, that what is quintessentially ME was all over that ceremony, from the juggling to the candlelighting to the vow writing and reading to the contradancing.

12. What will they play at your funeral?
Now That You're Gone (Ryan Adams)

That's what turned up. I swear.

13. What is your hobby / interest?
Tell Me You're Alive (Michael Franti and Spearhead)

Interesting............ I have this "pillow" hanging in my bedroom made by my friend Marina. Painted in neon yellow letters is the word "ALIVE". She left it on my porch before moving to Brooklyn. Alive is one of my favorite words. I look at it every morning when I wake up. Most times, Alive is enough. Sometimes Alive is even more than we can handle. How dare we demand more?

14. What is your biggest fear?
I Found It (Klayton Kendall)

We search our whole life for "It". If we actually found it, then what would be the purpose of life? And having no purpose in life is my greatest fear.

15. What is your biggest secret?
We Used to Vacation (Cold War Kids)

Now this is NO secret at all! Of course we used to vacation. Before we had kids and were poor and settled in jobs and had a mortgage and ..........

16. What do you think of your friends?
Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine (John Prine and another guy named Mac)

This sort of paints a picture of hanging out with folks on the patio, or in the backyard of a summer eve. Yeah.

17. What is your theme song?
Punch and Judy (Elliott Smith)

Yes! This is the best one so far. "Huzzah, huzzah! I killed the Devil!"

18. What do you think of your family?
Blossom (Cold Roses)

Corny. But, really, what do our children do but blossom right before our eyes?

19. What is your best friend's theme song?
Yes, I Will (Michael Franti and Spearhead)

My husband has said, I don't know how many times, that he will be here, for me, for the boys, no matter what. Yes, he will.

20. What is your mood right now?
Crow Waltz (The Be Good Tanyas)

Waltzing. I love waltzing! I've waltzed three times in the past week. It makes me all happy inside.

21. If your heart could talk, what would it say?
What Sarah Said (Death Cab for Cutie)

Sara (no h) knows my heart about as well as I.

22. What do your co-workers think of you?
God's Promise (Burns Sisters)

Depends on your idea of "God" I suppose.

23. What does your future look like?
Brothers on a Hotel Bed (Death Cab for Cutie)

Um.... sounds fun, but...... I don't think so. Let's try that one again, shall we?

Streetwalker (Delta Spirit)

Uh, no, don't think that's it either. One more time.

You Can Close Your Eyes (James Taylor)

Ok, that's more like it.

second time around

I've never understood the need to watch a film more than once. People who own movies confound me. There's only so much time we are given in life, shouldn't we use it to learn/experience something new? I've also felt the same way about books. Or at least I used to. In fact, before this summer, I think the only book I had ever read twice was Anna Karenina.

I've had a hard time starting and finishing books over the past year or so. My mind wanders. Or I'm not interested in the characters and their mundane problems. Or there's not enough sex. Or there's too much plot. Or I'm half way through and can already see the end, and it's either happily ever after or a train wreck so there's no sense in going on.

This summer, in order to stave off the fear that I will never finish another book, I decided to abandon any possibility of a new novel, and revisit some of my favorites. Ones I know I actually finished once upon a time, and enjoyed. Ones I know fundamentally changed the way I saw the world and/or my place in it. I wanted to read the books I read when I was 11 or 23.

The first book I picked up was The Hobbit. It was fun. And funny. I had forgotten, in all of the Lord of the Rings-movie-big-battle-hype, how funny and sweet Tolkien was in that first little adventure. I fell in love with Bilbo Baggins all over again.

The next book I picked up (and just finished this morning) was Jitterbug Perfume. If you are a Tom Robbins fan, you'll know why. What I remember, from being in my early 20's, was that Jitterbug Perfume fundamentally awakened in me something I already knew. It was like Tom Robbins took what was already in my heart and soul, and put it on paper. Jitterbug Perfume values mythology over reality, the magical over the mundane, and manages to bring together history, metaphor, religion, politics, philosophy, sex, immortality, and, yes, dancing and perfume into one big gigantic soup of individual liberty and otherworldly/othertimely possibilities. Anyone who doesn't like this book is really not eligible to be my friend.

Next up on the list: The Dark is Rising Series by Susan Cooper. I read them when I was in 6th grade. I can't wait to read them again and find out why I loved them so much.

What books did you love when you were 11?
What books did you love when you were 23?

Tell me this, and I will know who you are.

erissa the younger

Which one am I?








In three days, I will sit down at a table with four friends and play my first ever Dungeons and Dragons game. Something tells me this is just a teeny, tiny bit stupid. But another part of me says, "Why the hell not? It could be really fun!" I've done many things in the past year that I have never done before, like play the flute (more on that later). I've done many things I used to do, but haven't done in a long time, like read poetry in front of an audience (more on that later as well). It's been a marvelous year of newness and resurrection. My friend Noel coined the perfect term for me: "Mid-Life Isis".

On with our story. Erissa the Younger is a cleric of Eris, goddess of chaos. Here's part of her story:

I am a nomad, a love child born of a young, impetuous love affair. My parents never lived together. Because my mother was so young and the world was in such chaos, my father and his people, the elves, took me in to raise me. But they never understood my tempestuous, impulsive nature, and I couldn’t stand their serenity. So I went to live with my mother for a while. There, too, among humans, I was not welcome, but ridiculed. I couldn’t play their games or sing their songs. I hated them all. My mother could not protect me; indeed, she had no desire to.

And so I left. I wandered. I fought in battles, on all sides, with anyone who would accept me.…. not because I believed in any cause, but because it was something to do. And kinda fun. I saw people die. I died myself, but came back to join the living. I watched the stupidity of humans time and time again as they fought to destroy or defend things that were not worth destroying or defending. I perceived the futility in all actions. I knew that death was no end.

How I became a cleric of Eris shall remain a secret. Clerics of Eris have no monasteries, no organization, no dogma. I ordained myself. I answer only to my goddess and to myself.

I live to cause chaos, in the name of Eris, not necessarily to cause pain or suffering (although that can, of course, be the outcome of a prank), but to reveal some deeper truth or absurdity, and especially to bring enlightenment to the one being pranked. Mostly, though, I do it for my own entertainment!

My only motive is to make sure that others don’t take themselves too seriously. I work to reverse the Curse of Greyface.

If I had a car, it would have a bumper sticker that says, “Bumper Sticker”.

I despise most other beings, but I love the adventurous, the foolhardy, the insane, and the outcast.

I will kiss a man simply to make another man jealous. I will tell you to go left when I really think you should go right. I will contradict myself. I will never tell you where I have been. I will fight when I should run. I will lie if it will make you miserable. Or happy.

The only thing I have to watch out for is the reaction of Eris when I (as sometimes happens) take myself too seriously.

I am a culture jamming merry prankster who adheres to most of the tenets of Discordianism.

Uh, yeah, so there………

If you want to know more about gaming as social discourse, or to see the incredibly cool homemade map of where we'll be wandering, or to read about my traveling companions, go here.

today in other people from my past

Mark DH. He once whisked me out of Seattle in the middle of a panic attack. I once walked the Alaskan tundra with him. We once almost got married.

He makes these incredible pastel artworks filled with luscious dreaminess and visceral aliveness. He has been animating them lately. This one's my favorite. Proboscis Planet:



You can see more of his animated artworks on the baconwafer channel. I will see Mark in September, and we will need only to sit together and say a few words to be happy.

Kirsten LD. She once kissed me. I once visited her in England when she had three kids and I a one-year-old. We once hitchhiked to get to the Glastonbury Festival.

She just produced a BBC radio programme about Child Preachers in America. I saw her last March when she was passing through en route to Spokane while working on the show. We sat on the floor at DIA, curled up head-to-head and had one of those "we've-only-got-an-hour-so-let's-not-speak-of-things-that-don't-matter-and-I-love-you-soooo-much" talks.

I met Mark and Kirsten at the same time, second semester junior year. 1988. Pacific Lutheran University. A course titled Feminist Theology brought a ragtag group of us together that year, and it became a magical awakening time. The kind you can only have when you are young and open and shy and ready and full of longing and lust for life. Sometimes it's hard to believe that 20 years have passed since then. Twenty fucking years!

If it happened once, and you can imagine it, then it can happen again. (That's what Azar Nafisi told the crowd at Shove Chapel when I asked her what UPSILAMBA meant to her.)

I think Alzheimer's is about the scariest thing imaginable. I mean, really, who would we be without our memories? Without our sacred moments? Our daydreams?

There are catalysts in our lives. Sometimes a person and a place and a time come together in such a way that we are forever changed. And we are catapulted into other orbits or higher planes.

What does upsilamba mean to you?

karma defined

Bennett was lovingly tormenting some millipedes on Sunday when an unknown critter bit/pinched/stung him on his back. At that point I asked him, "Do you know what karma is buddy?"

"No."

After ruminating for a few seconds on my prolix explanation, he finally said...........

"So the Universe pinched me?"

And people wonder why we have kids.

mar adentro

The Sea Inside. Where was I in 2005?  How the hell did I miss this?



Just put it at the top of your queue.  Trust me. And don't forget the tissues.

Ramon Sampedro: "Only time and the evolution of conscience will decide one day if my request was reasonable or not."

Let us hope, someday soon, that the courts of law and the hearts of men decide that it was.

My mother also had some words to say about death with dignity.

funny things you hear when you raise your kids without christianity

Grant, whispering in my ear during a flute concert at the Broadmoor Community Church: "Why is there an upside down sword on the wall?"
Bennett, while admiring the gingerbread village at the Broadmoor Hotel: "Why is there a letter t on top of that building?"

on being chosen

As a young girl of about seven or eight, I loved browsing through the Illustrated Children’s Bible in the waiting room when I went to get my weekly allergy shot. One picture I remember vividly: a darkened room, a boy in his bed, and a glowing Jesus standing in the middle of the room, arms outstretched. The boy was peering out from under the covers at Jesus, slightly afraid, or perhaps in awe. I never bothered to read the story on the page opposite the illustration; all I knew was that I wanted Jesus to come into my room like that. I wouldn't be afraid. I would crawl into his welcoming arms and rest there awhile, knowing he came just for me. I had faith, but I needed proof. I didn’t know then that faith was what you had when you didn’t need any proof.

At night, I would wait for Jesus under my pink gingham sheets. I would whisper under the covers, “Jesus, if you are really real, you will come into my room this night.” (I tried hard not to sound demanding or desperate or doubtful, but it never worked). I prayed. I made deals. I begged. Night after night. He never showed. I was raised to believe in miracles: Lazarus, loaves and fishes, the meek inheriting the earth (ok, this one hasn't happened yet, but I believed, and still believe, it will). I fully expected one to happen to me. I'd like to say that this was where my doubt in religion began. I'd like to say I was one of those wise-beyond-her-years characters in a novel. But instead of doubting Jesus, I doubted my own power to make him show up. As if making Jesus appear in my bedroom at night were actually something I had any control over!

The conclusion I drew was a sad one: obviously, I was not good enough, not pure enough, not worthy enough, for Jesus to come into my room at night.

About this same time, I saw the movie Escape to Witch Mountain. That's it! I was to be chosen not by Jesus, but by Magic. I had abilities far superior than the average child! I was a witch! I just knew I could make those sturdy books fly across the room and into my hands with sheer willpower. And so I sat on the sofa and stared across the living room at our bookshelves. Day after day, I applied myself to my new task. I concentrated. I focused. I almost passed out. Sometimes I swear I saw a book jiggle a little, especially the ones on the top shelf, but nothing ever came of it. And my doubt in my own power grew. Because I still believed in Magic.

I wonder how many kids today lie awake at night on the eve of their 11th birthday, waiting expectantly for an owl to show up.

Next it was the extraterrestrials. Fed by Close Encounters of the Third Kind and ET, my mind raced with the idea that aliens, surely, would see my desperate plight. During warm summer nights, my mother would let my brother and I sleep in the backyard under the stars. Staring up at the night sky, I waited for friendly aliens to come and carry me away to another, better place. I sent frantic, telepathic messages into the worlds beyond... Pick ME! Choose ME! I had no fear of them, just as I had no fear of a strange glowing man in my room at night. I knew they would come for me. I was special.

You know the ending.

Eventually, fundamentalist Christianity came along. Picture, if you will, a 13-year-old girl in the throes of puberty, lost in a spinning dance outdoors at the Jesus Northwest Festival. Somewhere in the middle of that crowded field, I met the holy spirit face-to-face (it was red, all red), fell on the grass, and, to this day, still don't know whether I laughed or wept. I hadn’t been chosen by Jesus or Magic or Aliens, but by God Himself! I’m still not exactly sure what happened to me that evening, but I do know that my body was aroused, my mind was open, the music was loud, and I felt, for the first time in my life, unconditional love.

I gave up on organized religion shortly thereafter, realizing hypocrisy at the ripe old age of 15 or so. At least I can say my foray into the born-again realm was short-lived. But the intensity of that evening has never left me. I have recreated it at other times in my life, with Dead shows or drugs or dancing or sex, but nothing has ever come close to that first time.

People who don’t understand evangelicals have never had this kind of experience, I would presume. They dismiss with disgust the swaying worshippers in New Life with their hypnotic music, hands in the air. I don’t laugh at them because I understand their desperate need to belong, to know someone loves them, to be chosen.

The thing about fundamentalists of all religions is that they KNOW they are chosen, and there is something powerful and soothing in that. And terribly, terribly frightening. If you believe you are chosen, you have all things instantly: faith, purpose, meaning, and all the right answers.

All this leads me to my own young children at this time of year, so willing to believe in Santa. Santa tells you that you are special... he reads YOUR letters, comes to YOUR house, knows just what YOU want. He feeds an ancient, holy, human need. For my older one, it is almost a desperate need. It seems as if he is clinging to his faith in Santa, even though he knows the truth already.

Younger: “I don't get it, I mean how do the reindeer actually FLY? And how does Santa get EVERYWHERE in one night with all those presents?"
Older: “Duh!.... MAGIC!” This one, he has all the answers. No questions asked. He believes fervently in dragons, ghosts, monsters, and magic. He believes all movies are real, no matter what we tell him to the contrary. He would believe in God so easily, if we just let him.

What I feel compelled to do now, more than anything, is to let people (my children, my students, random strangers on the street, my beloved few readers....) know that they are chosen. Maybe not for something great, but at least for something important. Something good, with meaning, that is ultimately larger than themselves. We cannot hope or pray or wish or will things into existence. We cannot make others come to us. We may have been abandoned, or we may just feel abandoned, but we can choose as well as be chosen. With this knowledge, comes power.

And what I know so deeply and painfully in my heart is this: If we don't let our kids know each and every fucking day of the year that we CHOSE them, that we love them NO MATTER WHAT, then SOMETHING ELSE WILL! It might be fundamentalist religion or a sexual predator or the wrong kid at the wrong time or shopping or addiction. Because to feel powerless and unloved in this world will make you a victim.

“Pick ME! Choose ME! Love ME!” Meredith pleads, begs, wails to McDreamy somewhere during the second (or third?) season of Grey’s Anatomy. Because it sucks not to be the chosen one.

god of war, god of peace

This radio programme was produced for the BBC by my friend Kirsten Dwight. In it, John McCarthy reports from Israel, "where religion is at the heart of the conflict and is seen, rightly or wrongly, as crucial to the search for peace." Just when you thought there was nothing new to hear or read or watch or learn....
Look on the side bar under "Listen Again" for "God of War, God of Peace". It will only be available until Wednesday. Kudos to Kirs!

three

watching the world from the crotch of the fig tree
into crescent fluorescence we are born
of shadows
i have faith in nights
and a stranger's greeting
burning embers
the quadrilateral translucence of worlds unknown
sends me home