1. They always come at inconvenient times.
2. If they waited until we were ready or prepared for them, they would never get here.
3. When you least expect it, something magickal and beautiful arrives, even before the anguish and pain from just a few moments ago has had a chance to subside.
4. They grow and change too fast for us to keep up, and too slow for us to not be impatient.
5. Most importantly, they are both gifts from God, and if we do not treasure them, they will be gone before we know it.
22.12.08
29.10.08
Wonder, Grace, and the Great Gilly Hopkins
Ah, Gilly! The child who spent most of her inner energy wishing for stability, while her actions indicated that she wanted otherwise . . . How often have we each encountered those very same conflicting emotions – and reacted with similar results? We wish for someone or something upon which we can depend, yet our behavior often suggests that the opposite is true. The answer would seem simple: That upon which we concentrate most is often what unfolds in our lives. If we concentrate most on what we do not want, then that is what Universe will send our way. In some circles, it is believed that Universe does not know the difference between I-want and I-do-not-want; Universe only knows where each person’s energy is being directed, and so sends those things or situations that have attracted the most attention. Gilly put most of her energy into pushing away what she did not want, rather on embracing than what she did want. Of course, for most of her life, she did not know what she truly wanted; like most of us, since she knew more about what she did not want, she put more emphasis on that, rather than on finding ways to attract what she did want. It is no wonder, then, that when her heart’s true desire came in the form of Mrs. Trotter and the people in her world, Gilly did not recognize the gift she had been given. Has this not been true of each of us at various points in our journeys?
Like many of us, Gilly truly wanted dependability in the midst of contingency. All of life is contingent, even in the best of circumstances. A stray bullet, an errant driver, a well-timed bolt of lightning . . . any of these can disrupt and end life as we know it. Within the tiniest fraction of a moment, the life that we thought we knew and loved could vanish, leaving each person to face the choice of whether to pick up the pieces left behind or to start anew from nothing at all. Was this the choice, we sometimes wonder, that God faced? Was there some cosmic Big Bang where the inhabitants of a world similar to this blew themselves up, leaving God with a choice of whether to pick up the pieces and begin again, or to start anew with a voice in the midst of a void? The essential nature of life, from which we often run, would seem to be the very simple fact that none of this has to be as it is, right in this moment. All that we think we know could dissolve, and the dissolving disillusionment that follows is part of a process that most of us seem to fear and try to avoid at all costs. That is where Gilly – and we – make our most telling mistake: We begin concentrating so much of our energies on (avoiding) contingency that we fail to recognize and embrace the dependability we so earnestly desire from within. Desire, like love, is static until we focus energy on it. In other words, until desire becomes a verb with which we imbue with energetic action – showing, seeking, discovering – it can only remain a word on a page, sometimes less than a fleeting thought through the mind. Until we put our hearts and souls into living the dependability we so desire, into – in Gandhi’s words – becoming the change we wish to see, we will continue to attract that which gets the most attention: the chaos of contingency.
The key would seem to lie in embracing contingency as part of life’s process, thereby freeing us to focus our energies on becoming the dependability that we seek in the midst of the chaos. How can one depend on one’s faith, if one does not concentrate one’s energies on being faithful? How can one depend on God’s love and grace in times of trouble, if one does not concentrate one’s energies on being loving and grace-filled in the midst of the chaos that others experience? Rarely does God’s grace and love come gift-wrapped in a package that falls on us from outer space. Most often, God sends love and grace through other people in ways that can only be recognized from within, first. In order for grace and love to be felt from within, it would seem that it must come from within, first. This is the lesson that Gilly – who represents each of us children of God – learns late and, of course, the hard way. She, battered by her frequently broken heart, does not recognize that she has arrived at the home for which she has most longed. Life’s contingencies have ripped the rug from under her so many times that in an act of final desperation, she rips her own rug from under her own feet, and must live with the consequences that she has created. Fortunately for Gilly – and for us – the story does not end there, for in doing so, Gilly ends up in the home of the one living entity who helped create her, just as we will eventually return to the Home of the One Living Entity who created each of us. The wonder of it all is that for the many times we get lost and lose ourselves, we make it Home at all. It is enough to make one wonder whether God has installed the Spirit as some sort of homing device, so that no matter how lost we cause our souls to be, they return to the One who is never lost, but only hidden deep within.
Gilly Hopkins is great, indeed, as is each of us. Through her story, we can interpret our own journeys. For, is it not so that each of us goes through many foster homes – places that were dependable only for a season – before we finally reach Home? Is it not so that when we feel tossed aside by contingency, we become confused into thinking that contingency created us, and so we must also become contingent in our own interactions with ourselves and with others – and with God? Is it not so that after a lifetime of creating contingency, we forget what true dependability really looks like, and so, looking through our human eyes leads us to fail to see it when it does arrive? And, is it not so that it is only after we have propelled ourselves from the embrace of true dependability that hindsight can finally show us what we have missed, and that it is only then that we begin to realize that we must put energy into becoming what we want to have, instead of putting that energy into not having what we do not want?
When you are hungry for eggs, it is pointless to reach into the refrigerator with only the intent of not grabbing the bacon. For when your only intent is to not grab the bacon, sure enough, it will be the bacon that leaps into your hands first; the eggs will never even have a chance. Likewise, when dependability is what we seek, it is pointless to reach within Universe, with only the intent of avoiding contingency. For if we reach within Universe, with only the intent of avoiding contingency, sure enough, it will be contingency that will leap toward us first; dependability will never even have a chance.
Like many of us, Gilly truly wanted dependability in the midst of contingency. All of life is contingent, even in the best of circumstances. A stray bullet, an errant driver, a well-timed bolt of lightning . . . any of these can disrupt and end life as we know it. Within the tiniest fraction of a moment, the life that we thought we knew and loved could vanish, leaving each person to face the choice of whether to pick up the pieces left behind or to start anew from nothing at all. Was this the choice, we sometimes wonder, that God faced? Was there some cosmic Big Bang where the inhabitants of a world similar to this blew themselves up, leaving God with a choice of whether to pick up the pieces and begin again, or to start anew with a voice in the midst of a void? The essential nature of life, from which we often run, would seem to be the very simple fact that none of this has to be as it is, right in this moment. All that we think we know could dissolve, and the dissolving disillusionment that follows is part of a process that most of us seem to fear and try to avoid at all costs. That is where Gilly – and we – make our most telling mistake: We begin concentrating so much of our energies on (avoiding) contingency that we fail to recognize and embrace the dependability we so earnestly desire from within. Desire, like love, is static until we focus energy on it. In other words, until desire becomes a verb with which we imbue with energetic action – showing, seeking, discovering – it can only remain a word on a page, sometimes less than a fleeting thought through the mind. Until we put our hearts and souls into living the dependability we so desire, into – in Gandhi’s words – becoming the change we wish to see, we will continue to attract that which gets the most attention: the chaos of contingency.
The key would seem to lie in embracing contingency as part of life’s process, thereby freeing us to focus our energies on becoming the dependability that we seek in the midst of the chaos. How can one depend on one’s faith, if one does not concentrate one’s energies on being faithful? How can one depend on God’s love and grace in times of trouble, if one does not concentrate one’s energies on being loving and grace-filled in the midst of the chaos that others experience? Rarely does God’s grace and love come gift-wrapped in a package that falls on us from outer space. Most often, God sends love and grace through other people in ways that can only be recognized from within, first. In order for grace and love to be felt from within, it would seem that it must come from within, first. This is the lesson that Gilly – who represents each of us children of God – learns late and, of course, the hard way. She, battered by her frequently broken heart, does not recognize that she has arrived at the home for which she has most longed. Life’s contingencies have ripped the rug from under her so many times that in an act of final desperation, she rips her own rug from under her own feet, and must live with the consequences that she has created. Fortunately for Gilly – and for us – the story does not end there, for in doing so, Gilly ends up in the home of the one living entity who helped create her, just as we will eventually return to the Home of the One Living Entity who created each of us. The wonder of it all is that for the many times we get lost and lose ourselves, we make it Home at all. It is enough to make one wonder whether God has installed the Spirit as some sort of homing device, so that no matter how lost we cause our souls to be, they return to the One who is never lost, but only hidden deep within.
Gilly Hopkins is great, indeed, as is each of us. Through her story, we can interpret our own journeys. For, is it not so that each of us goes through many foster homes – places that were dependable only for a season – before we finally reach Home? Is it not so that when we feel tossed aside by contingency, we become confused into thinking that contingency created us, and so we must also become contingent in our own interactions with ourselves and with others – and with God? Is it not so that after a lifetime of creating contingency, we forget what true dependability really looks like, and so, looking through our human eyes leads us to fail to see it when it does arrive? And, is it not so that it is only after we have propelled ourselves from the embrace of true dependability that hindsight can finally show us what we have missed, and that it is only then that we begin to realize that we must put energy into becoming what we want to have, instead of putting that energy into not having what we do not want?
When you are hungry for eggs, it is pointless to reach into the refrigerator with only the intent of not grabbing the bacon. For when your only intent is to not grab the bacon, sure enough, it will be the bacon that leaps into your hands first; the eggs will never even have a chance. Likewise, when dependability is what we seek, it is pointless to reach within Universe, with only the intent of avoiding contingency. For if we reach within Universe, with only the intent of avoiding contingency, sure enough, it will be contingency that will leap toward us first; dependability will never even have a chance.
19.10.08
My Story: Depression
In August 1985, at the age of 17, I discovered that I was pregnant. Young and inexperienced, but with a pretty good sense of self, I decided that I was neither ready nor willing to be a mother. I wanted to have an abortion, but parental permission was denied. I considered adoption, but the closer I got to having my son, the more I realized that I would not be emotionally strong enough to give him up. Over the years, I have had friends and beloved ones who have had abortions, and because I know that it is such a heart wrenching and soul searing decision, I admire them for the people they are and I think that their strength in the face of what had to be the most difficult decisions they have ever had to make is to be both commended and respected. I did not choose to not have an abortion; that choice was made for me. Like any medical procedure, I believe that such decisions are best left to the people directly involved and their primary medical care providers. But this is not a story about teen pregnancy or abortion; it is a story about depression.
Sixteen years after my son was born, I suffered a devastating emotional breakdown. A strong woman, I suddenly found myself unable to cope with living in the world I had created, and so I called my mother and begged her to allow me to come live with her. It was 2001, and it would be the first time since my son was very small that I would be living under my mother's roof. The intergenerational factor notwithstanding, I had also come out as a lesbian – something that my mother had come to believe would surely send my soul to hell. It made life difficult, to say the least. But this is not a story about being a lesbian; it is a story about depression.
A few months after moving into my mother's house, I secured a job working as an administrative assistant at a non-profit organization. This organization provided educational opportunities for healthcare providers in the fields of obstetrics and gynecology, so that they could keep their training and licensure current by earning needed continuing education credits through coursework and practical experience. The nonprofit also advocated for legislation that reinforced a woman's right to make her own pregnancy termination choices, should such become necessary – a position that I highly respect and value. As I progressed within the organization, my job became more specialized, and I began work in the area of membership acquisition. Part of my responsibilities entailed reading the journal articles published by members of our association in various medical journals.
Several factors came into play, between November 2001 and February 2003: a new living situation, a new job, a child who was angry at having to move in his junior year of high school, falling in love, getting kicked out of my mother's home for being a "practicing" lesbian, moving in with my new lover, a chance encounter that led to PTSD flashbacks from childhood and adult sexual traumas, and intense therapy to learn coping mechanisms for all of those situations. When I read an article by one of my association's doctors, detailing an abortive procedure that required the insertion of a needle into an unborn's brain and literally sucking the life out of that fetus before inducing its forced expulsion, I began having panic attacks every single day as I walked into the office. While I am strongly supportive of a woman's right to choose, discovering the details of this specific procedure caused me no end of heartache and regret. In the end, my then-partner encouraged me to resign my position, as it had become clear that along with everything else, a complete mental and spiritual meltdown was imminently approaching.
The whirlwind hit with a force that I had never encountered before. Nightmares, daymares, flashbacks . . . emotional imprisonment. My mind was no longer a safe place to be. Over the next two years, I would watch myself slowly slide into a chasmic abyss from which there seemed no escape; I turned from a confident and self-assured woman into this near-agoraphobic child that I hardly recognized. I dared not look in the mirror, for fear of coming face-to-face with what I had become.
I had a few saving graces during that time.
• My then-partner did not abandon me, even though promise after promise remained unfulfilled. For instance, I had promised that if I were allowed to quit my job, I would keep the house spotless and have dinner on the table every night. It was understandably disappointing and anger-inducing when many days, I felt triumphant if I could just get out of bed and wash the dishes. There were many arguments during that time, but hindsight has revealed that we were both doing the best we could while struggling with and against each other – and our selves – in very unfamiliar territory.
• Another saving grace came in the form of our choir director, and by extension, our church itself. Our choir director became my rock, my anchor. She saw into me in ways that I kept hidden, even from my therapist. She held me when I wept, and she taught me how to be strong again, through the most gentle and firm ways imaginable. She was actually the first person I encountered when the flashbacks began, and from that moment, she made me a priority in her life. At 2:00 AM, when the nightmares kept me awake, I called her and she helped me go back to sleep. In the middle of the afternoon, when I grew silent and withdrew, she called right at the moment when the walls started to close in on me. And she recognized my penchant for isolating. So she got me to use my administrative wizadry to help her keep our music ministry – and her office – organized. I was SO GRATEFUL for a reason to get out of the house, out of my own mind's prison, and to keep functioning. If I needed to not be there, she understood and supported me. But when she could see that I had too much time on my hands, she filled my hands so that my mind could heal. She became my first mentor in the ministry, and she will always embody those qualities in a mom that my own mother was unable to provide.
• By extension, my church is also a saving grace for me. After much encouragement from my then-partner, I underwent training to become a deacon, and just the opportunity to be surrounded by people who take care of people – and to be of help in taking care of every one of them – provided me the opportunity to be cared for, myself. I think that this can occur in any situation – a hospital, nursing home, church – anyplace that provides sanctuary and care of others is such a healing place to give and receive the gifts of love and grace. When I started ministering to the needs of others, I found my own needs being ministered to, as well. And as I say "ministering", I am not just speaking of the classic meaning of ministry – in a church – but of the overarching meaning: the caregiving, the support, the doing-for-others-ness that occurs when I give freely of myself, not expecting or wanting any sort of payment in return. I find a little bit of me in the people I help, and I have come to accept that that is not selfish or co-dependent. It is interdependent. My health does not depend on whether they need me. My health depends, in part, on my own willingness to use my gifts to help myself to help others to help themselves.
• My therapist was and is a saving grace for me. In those first few months, we saw each other three times a week, every week. She was another anti-agoraphobic agent. I had to get out of the house to see her, which meant riding the bus and train for up to two hours each way. My MP3 player and I got very close in those first few months, and I still keep it in reserve for when I have to be in the city, riding public transportation. Probably the most important thing my therapist did for me is twofold: First, she gave me homework for every day between our sessions; and second, she put the responsibility for my recovery into my own hands. It was my responsibility to put into practice the tools and techniques she taught me; it was up to me to journal or draw or talk through those events that, when locked away, only ate at my soul and at my life. It was all up to me, and I have no doubt that if I were still seeing her three times a week after six months, she would have recommended me to another therapist. Her goal was that I get better, and her level of professionalism dictated that if I weren't showing signs of progress, then she would have suggested I continue my treatment elsewhere. That inspired a level of trust within me that I had not felt in a very long time.
I would like to say that I am completely depression free now, and that all of life is rosy and happy, every moment of every day. That would be a lie. A very wise friend recently told me that "health is a choice." It is a choice that I have to make every single day – and, to be honest, sometimes I have to make that choice moment-by-moment. I still battle my depression because like my sciatica and pinched nerves, depression is a chronic disease that – left untreated – will eat away at my core, and will eventually erode my sense of self, my relationships, and my life. That same wise friend says that, "depression kills, but with a very long and slow timeline." If I am not careful, I will not see that it is destroying me until I look around and see the destruction it leaves in the wake of my life.
I am definitely on "happy pills"; Zoloft has been a Godsend. But Zoloft alone is not enough. Without the care of my therapist, the love of several dear people, and my own willingness to push myself beyond what I thought were my limitations, I would still be locked in my own home, a prisoner of my own mind. But the most important thing I think I did was that I let go, and I did what I was told to do. I stopped struggling, stopped giving my therapist and my friends and my beloved ones reasons for why I could not, and I made the decision to just get up and do what I was told. I discovered that because I stopped trusting my parents' abilities to act in my own best interests, as a very young child, that I had a lot of trouble picking the right people to trust in, as I grew into an adult. Of the many people I have chosen to be in my life over the last 40 years, only a very small handful have proven to be ones that I want to grow old and die with. But then, that handful is not the handful that I have chosen; they are the ones whom I have encountered at the very most unlikely of times and have stuck with me, even when I did not want to stick with myself. (There is a lesson in there, I am sure of it.) But once I decided to just do what I was told – to trust the love of my therapist and my family-of-choice – a whole world opened up to me, and I have not regretted a single moment of this new ride that I am on. The beginning was hard and shaky and there were times when I got off, threw up, and then got right back on again. And there are still those upside down moments, backward turns, and major upheavals (spiritual, emotional, and spiritual) but I still do what I am told, especially in those moments when I have to admit that I do not know what I am supposed to do.
I had to decide that I wanted to be healthy. I still have to decide that I want to be healthy. Part of that decision is realizing that I do not always know what is best for me – that most times, it is the people who love me who know what is best for me. Someone looked in and found a place where I could come, just as I was, to work on my outside while I and my therapist worked on my inside. Someone encouraged me to push myself when I thought I was too weak to even want to get out of bed most days. Someone cared about me and did not let me keep playing those self-destructive tapes that drove me to kick myself while I was already down. Someone showed me grace and love, and showed me that I had grace and love to give, when I thought that that I had none and deserved neither. The people in my life were not just there for me. They were there with me – pulling, pushing, encouraging, cajoling, and forcing me to see things and do stuff that my mind would not allow my heart to admit I wanted to do. Of all of those, I thank God most for the parts where they pushed and forced me, because if they had not, then the pulling and cajoling and encouraging would have only netted moments of laughter – rather than the life of joy that I am privileged to be an active participant in.
I still have to choose to be healthy. At least now, though, it is not nearly as hard a choice as it once was. My mind is a safer place to be, and thank God for the amount of work that it takes to make sure it stays that way.
Sixteen years after my son was born, I suffered a devastating emotional breakdown. A strong woman, I suddenly found myself unable to cope with living in the world I had created, and so I called my mother and begged her to allow me to come live with her. It was 2001, and it would be the first time since my son was very small that I would be living under my mother's roof. The intergenerational factor notwithstanding, I had also come out as a lesbian – something that my mother had come to believe would surely send my soul to hell. It made life difficult, to say the least. But this is not a story about being a lesbian; it is a story about depression.
A few months after moving into my mother's house, I secured a job working as an administrative assistant at a non-profit organization. This organization provided educational opportunities for healthcare providers in the fields of obstetrics and gynecology, so that they could keep their training and licensure current by earning needed continuing education credits through coursework and practical experience. The nonprofit also advocated for legislation that reinforced a woman's right to make her own pregnancy termination choices, should such become necessary – a position that I highly respect and value. As I progressed within the organization, my job became more specialized, and I began work in the area of membership acquisition. Part of my responsibilities entailed reading the journal articles published by members of our association in various medical journals.
Several factors came into play, between November 2001 and February 2003: a new living situation, a new job, a child who was angry at having to move in his junior year of high school, falling in love, getting kicked out of my mother's home for being a "practicing" lesbian, moving in with my new lover, a chance encounter that led to PTSD flashbacks from childhood and adult sexual traumas, and intense therapy to learn coping mechanisms for all of those situations. When I read an article by one of my association's doctors, detailing an abortive procedure that required the insertion of a needle into an unborn's brain and literally sucking the life out of that fetus before inducing its forced expulsion, I began having panic attacks every single day as I walked into the office. While I am strongly supportive of a woman's right to choose, discovering the details of this specific procedure caused me no end of heartache and regret. In the end, my then-partner encouraged me to resign my position, as it had become clear that along with everything else, a complete mental and spiritual meltdown was imminently approaching.
The whirlwind hit with a force that I had never encountered before. Nightmares, daymares, flashbacks . . . emotional imprisonment. My mind was no longer a safe place to be. Over the next two years, I would watch myself slowly slide into a chasmic abyss from which there seemed no escape; I turned from a confident and self-assured woman into this near-agoraphobic child that I hardly recognized. I dared not look in the mirror, for fear of coming face-to-face with what I had become.
I had a few saving graces during that time.
• My then-partner did not abandon me, even though promise after promise remained unfulfilled. For instance, I had promised that if I were allowed to quit my job, I would keep the house spotless and have dinner on the table every night. It was understandably disappointing and anger-inducing when many days, I felt triumphant if I could just get out of bed and wash the dishes. There were many arguments during that time, but hindsight has revealed that we were both doing the best we could while struggling with and against each other – and our selves – in very unfamiliar territory.
• Another saving grace came in the form of our choir director, and by extension, our church itself. Our choir director became my rock, my anchor. She saw into me in ways that I kept hidden, even from my therapist. She held me when I wept, and she taught me how to be strong again, through the most gentle and firm ways imaginable. She was actually the first person I encountered when the flashbacks began, and from that moment, she made me a priority in her life. At 2:00 AM, when the nightmares kept me awake, I called her and she helped me go back to sleep. In the middle of the afternoon, when I grew silent and withdrew, she called right at the moment when the walls started to close in on me. And she recognized my penchant for isolating. So she got me to use my administrative wizadry to help her keep our music ministry – and her office – organized. I was SO GRATEFUL for a reason to get out of the house, out of my own mind's prison, and to keep functioning. If I needed to not be there, she understood and supported me. But when she could see that I had too much time on my hands, she filled my hands so that my mind could heal. She became my first mentor in the ministry, and she will always embody those qualities in a mom that my own mother was unable to provide.
• By extension, my church is also a saving grace for me. After much encouragement from my then-partner, I underwent training to become a deacon, and just the opportunity to be surrounded by people who take care of people – and to be of help in taking care of every one of them – provided me the opportunity to be cared for, myself. I think that this can occur in any situation – a hospital, nursing home, church – anyplace that provides sanctuary and care of others is such a healing place to give and receive the gifts of love and grace. When I started ministering to the needs of others, I found my own needs being ministered to, as well. And as I say "ministering", I am not just speaking of the classic meaning of ministry – in a church – but of the overarching meaning: the caregiving, the support, the doing-for-others-ness that occurs when I give freely of myself, not expecting or wanting any sort of payment in return. I find a little bit of me in the people I help, and I have come to accept that that is not selfish or co-dependent. It is interdependent. My health does not depend on whether they need me. My health depends, in part, on my own willingness to use my gifts to help myself to help others to help themselves.
• My therapist was and is a saving grace for me. In those first few months, we saw each other three times a week, every week. She was another anti-agoraphobic agent. I had to get out of the house to see her, which meant riding the bus and train for up to two hours each way. My MP3 player and I got very close in those first few months, and I still keep it in reserve for when I have to be in the city, riding public transportation. Probably the most important thing my therapist did for me is twofold: First, she gave me homework for every day between our sessions; and second, she put the responsibility for my recovery into my own hands. It was my responsibility to put into practice the tools and techniques she taught me; it was up to me to journal or draw or talk through those events that, when locked away, only ate at my soul and at my life. It was all up to me, and I have no doubt that if I were still seeing her three times a week after six months, she would have recommended me to another therapist. Her goal was that I get better, and her level of professionalism dictated that if I weren't showing signs of progress, then she would have suggested I continue my treatment elsewhere. That inspired a level of trust within me that I had not felt in a very long time.
I would like to say that I am completely depression free now, and that all of life is rosy and happy, every moment of every day. That would be a lie. A very wise friend recently told me that "health is a choice." It is a choice that I have to make every single day – and, to be honest, sometimes I have to make that choice moment-by-moment. I still battle my depression because like my sciatica and pinched nerves, depression is a chronic disease that – left untreated – will eat away at my core, and will eventually erode my sense of self, my relationships, and my life. That same wise friend says that, "depression kills, but with a very long and slow timeline." If I am not careful, I will not see that it is destroying me until I look around and see the destruction it leaves in the wake of my life.
I am definitely on "happy pills"; Zoloft has been a Godsend. But Zoloft alone is not enough. Without the care of my therapist, the love of several dear people, and my own willingness to push myself beyond what I thought were my limitations, I would still be locked in my own home, a prisoner of my own mind. But the most important thing I think I did was that I let go, and I did what I was told to do. I stopped struggling, stopped giving my therapist and my friends and my beloved ones reasons for why I could not, and I made the decision to just get up and do what I was told. I discovered that because I stopped trusting my parents' abilities to act in my own best interests, as a very young child, that I had a lot of trouble picking the right people to trust in, as I grew into an adult. Of the many people I have chosen to be in my life over the last 40 years, only a very small handful have proven to be ones that I want to grow old and die with. But then, that handful is not the handful that I have chosen; they are the ones whom I have encountered at the very most unlikely of times and have stuck with me, even when I did not want to stick with myself. (There is a lesson in there, I am sure of it.) But once I decided to just do what I was told – to trust the love of my therapist and my family-of-choice – a whole world opened up to me, and I have not regretted a single moment of this new ride that I am on. The beginning was hard and shaky and there were times when I got off, threw up, and then got right back on again. And there are still those upside down moments, backward turns, and major upheavals (spiritual, emotional, and spiritual) but I still do what I am told, especially in those moments when I have to admit that I do not know what I am supposed to do.
I had to decide that I wanted to be healthy. I still have to decide that I want to be healthy. Part of that decision is realizing that I do not always know what is best for me – that most times, it is the people who love me who know what is best for me. Someone looked in and found a place where I could come, just as I was, to work on my outside while I and my therapist worked on my inside. Someone encouraged me to push myself when I thought I was too weak to even want to get out of bed most days. Someone cared about me and did not let me keep playing those self-destructive tapes that drove me to kick myself while I was already down. Someone showed me grace and love, and showed me that I had grace and love to give, when I thought that that I had none and deserved neither. The people in my life were not just there for me. They were there with me – pulling, pushing, encouraging, cajoling, and forcing me to see things and do stuff that my mind would not allow my heart to admit I wanted to do. Of all of those, I thank God most for the parts where they pushed and forced me, because if they had not, then the pulling and cajoling and encouraging would have only netted moments of laughter – rather than the life of joy that I am privileged to be an active participant in.
I still have to choose to be healthy. At least now, though, it is not nearly as hard a choice as it once was. My mind is a safer place to be, and thank God for the amount of work that it takes to make sure it stays that way.
15.7.08
Top Ten . . .
Reasons Why I Like Hangin Out With God
1. God talks back. Sometimes.
2. God's got the single parenting thing down to a science.
3. Hangin out with God means that I don't have to be the center of the universe.
4. It doesn't hurt my feelings when God laughs at me.
5. I don't have to vie for God's attention.
6. God never breaks a Commandment.
7. God doesn't hate or kill. God lets US decide - and live with the consequences of - what we hate and what we use to kill ourselves. And each other.
8. God doesn't care what I wear to class or what my hair looks like or whether I have brown, pink, golden, or brick-colored skin.
9. God loves what God makes. No exceptions.
10. God never needs God-Time.
WAITWAITWAIT . . . There's more . . .
11. God gets slack.
12. God is not Bob. God is not dead. God is God.
13. God is the only Thing that justs . . . everything.
14. God makes me smile, probably about as often as I make God laugh.
15. If I put on an alb and I'm talking out loud while walking alone down the street, nobody will even suspect the insanity that lurks within. That's cool as shit!
16. Playing in the Presence of God is a helluva lot more fun than crying in the absence of man.
1. God talks back. Sometimes.
2. God's got the single parenting thing down to a science.
3. Hangin out with God means that I don't have to be the center of the universe.
4. It doesn't hurt my feelings when God laughs at me.
5. I don't have to vie for God's attention.
6. God never breaks a Commandment.
7. God doesn't hate or kill. God lets US decide - and live with the consequences of - what we hate and what we use to kill ourselves. And each other.
8. God doesn't care what I wear to class or what my hair looks like or whether I have brown, pink, golden, or brick-colored skin.
9. God loves what God makes. No exceptions.
10. God never needs God-Time.
WAITWAITWAIT . . . There's more . . .
11. God gets slack.
12. God is not Bob. God is not dead. God is God.
13. God is the only Thing that justs . . . everything.
14. God makes me smile, probably about as often as I make God laugh.
15. If I put on an alb and I'm talking out loud while walking alone down the street, nobody will even suspect the insanity that lurks within. That's cool as shit!
16. Playing in the Presence of God is a helluva lot more fun than crying in the absence of man.
7.7.08
We're M.I.
Dunno, actually . . . I've so gotten away from writing as a whole. Not just bloggin but poetry and love letters to MyLover. Songs . . . I haven't written in so long, it's almost frightening. I wish I could say that I knew the moment it began, and actually I do, but can't meaning won't . . .
So I am, now . . . writing, that is. Of course, Greek starts next week, so it'll be interesting the direction that my writing takes over the next month-and-a-half. Stuff just coincides . . .
I've got emails to return, and ooh that is QUITE the bit of crow to eat, although I'll be feeding it to myself. My people are amazingly understanding: they let me know that I've been lax, but then they also let me know that they understand why. However, their understandingness doesn't let me off the hook. On the contrary, it drives me to keep myself right there on that hook 'til I have paid them my debt of kindness.
So many interesting things happening lately . . . A 3.5 for my first semester of Seminary. Some might say that this isn't a 'real' grad school, but I dare your average business major to take a walk in some of MY homework, and we'll see who has the more challenging courseload. Almost anyone can 3R - repeat, recite, and regurgitate - but few are willing to delve deeply into their soul's matter and live within its spiritual constructs. It is fun, though - imagine, a career where I can pick my own bellybutton lint, examine it and that of others, and share the whole experience in front of a roomful of forty to four hundred of my bestest friends. Weehee!
Gonna turn forty soon, speakin of which. I like that, and I'm grateful for that. Got a sweet grrl, an awesome kid, and as much family as I allow myself to be open to. I'm fuckin tired right now, though, so syonara, sweet dreams, and caviar.
Cheers!
So I am, now . . . writing, that is. Of course, Greek starts next week, so it'll be interesting the direction that my writing takes over the next month-and-a-half. Stuff just coincides . . .
I've got emails to return, and ooh that is QUITE the bit of crow to eat, although I'll be feeding it to myself. My people are amazingly understanding: they let me know that I've been lax, but then they also let me know that they understand why. However, their understandingness doesn't let me off the hook. On the contrary, it drives me to keep myself right there on that hook 'til I have paid them my debt of kindness.
So many interesting things happening lately . . . A 3.5 for my first semester of Seminary. Some might say that this isn't a 'real' grad school, but I dare your average business major to take a walk in some of MY homework, and we'll see who has the more challenging courseload. Almost anyone can 3R - repeat, recite, and regurgitate - but few are willing to delve deeply into their soul's matter and live within its spiritual constructs. It is fun, though - imagine, a career where I can pick my own bellybutton lint, examine it and that of others, and share the whole experience in front of a roomful of forty to four hundred of my bestest friends. Weehee!
Gonna turn forty soon, speakin of which. I like that, and I'm grateful for that. Got a sweet grrl, an awesome kid, and as much family as I allow myself to be open to. I'm fuckin tired right now, though, so syonara, sweet dreams, and caviar.
Cheers!
27.6.08
short
so like this friend of mine . . . sweet girl . . . gits shot in her house . . . shot dead . . . then they set her place afire . . . she's home alone . . . and i'm fuckin insane with insanity . . . hard sayin God bless everyone no exceptions . . .
what if you wanna make an exception
wwJd
if he was alive, he woulda drove a chevette . . . dya think he woulda pimped out his ass like ppl pimp out chevette's . . . would he've gave it some zebra stripes and a boostin ass sound system with humongous woofers and little tiny tweeters and a kickin ass . . . well would his ass've kicked ass, ya think? shit . . . J in a chevette . . . or maybe a chevelle, yanno? like black interior with a yellow and white paintjob with red stripes and a rainbow I-Love-You sticker?
just wonderin, yanno, cuz it ain't right . . . shit just ain't cool.
annyway, i need a bath. i'm all sweaty and sticky and all that, but i just kinda needed to vent, inbetween squidbillies n razzapple buzz and shit . . . just needed to trip before i get wet . . . well, hell . . . gettin wet's nice anyway
cheerios
rublu
what if you wanna make an exception
wwJd
if he was alive, he woulda drove a chevette . . . dya think he woulda pimped out his ass like ppl pimp out chevette's . . . would he've gave it some zebra stripes and a boostin ass sound system with humongous woofers and little tiny tweeters and a kickin ass . . . well would his ass've kicked ass, ya think? shit . . . J in a chevette . . . or maybe a chevelle, yanno? like black interior with a yellow and white paintjob with red stripes and a rainbow I-Love-You sticker?
just wonderin, yanno, cuz it ain't right . . . shit just ain't cool.
annyway, i need a bath. i'm all sweaty and sticky and all that, but i just kinda needed to vent, inbetween squidbillies n razzapple buzz and shit . . . just needed to trip before i get wet . . . well, hell . . . gettin wet's nice anyway
cheerios
rublu
25.5.08
Shiny Girls Finish First
Yeah, I'm pretty cute. Everybody says so and you can only hear a thing so many times before you start believin it. And who'd lie to a dog, right? Right.
Ok, so check out the shine on my coat there. Glistening in the sunlight, yeah? Well, it might be pretty and I might be cute, but getting me to look like this did not make for a very cute morning. It all started so innocently . . .
Mommy got up, a little earlier than usual, but that wasn't a big deal. She sleeps like I sleep - whenever, wherever, til she's gotta go wee. So as she trekked her way to the echosystem, I got up and stretched . . . so tem
pted to try to get out of my harness again, but I'm still smartin from yesterday's Houdini display. You'd think she'd be proud of a puppy who can get out of any kind of binding, but nooooooooo. She rips me a new one every friggin time! I'm all like, "Look, Ma! No hands!" But then I don't sit right for the rest of the day. And those looks . . . Shit! 'S'enough to make you feel two legs short and three feet shorter. If you've ever gotten a Mommy Mad Look, you know for sure that you never want to get another one as long as you live!
pted to try to get out of my harness again, but I'm still smartin from yesterday's Houdini display. You'd think she'd be proud of a puppy who can get out of any kind of binding, but nooooooooo. She rips me a new one every friggin time! I'm all like, "Look, Ma! No hands!" But then I don't sit right for the rest of the day. And those looks . . . Shit! 'S'enough to make you feel two legs short and three feet shorter. If you've ever gotten a Mommy Mad Look, you know for sure that you never want to get another one as long as you live! So imagine my surprise when Mommy calls me over and takes off my harness herself this morning! I shoulda known somethin was up. Too late, she was leadin me by the collar . . . that's when it hit me! B-A-T-H time! Ooooh I tried to resist, but that damned tiled floor! Never can get a grip! But it does make my butt and pawnails slide a lot, so that was a plus. 'Til Mommy did the unthinkable. To hear her tell it, sixty pounds is a LOT when it plops up against a human tryin to share my bed. Well, okay, it's her bed, but only cuz I let her get in first. Anyhoot, so when I plop on, she acts like she's tryin to move the weight of the world. Apparently sixty pounds isn't really that heavy when it's B-A-T-H time, cuz she scooped me up and had me in the tub before I could even yelp right. 'Course b
y then, I didn't even want to yelp anymore. What was the point? It was all downhill from there anyway.
y then, I didn't even want to yelp anymore. What was the point? It was all downhill from there anyway.The waterspewerthingie was already spewin, and I've gotta admit - that water was warm and tasty! No additives, no preservatives, just straight from the spewer. Yum. Next thing I know, I'm all wet. Head to tail, just friggin soaked! Even my nose got wet. And I was shakin' and pantin like a bitch in heat!! Scared off my arse, I was! And then came the bubblystuff. It was cold at first! Made the hair on my tail stand up! Then Mommy rubbed in and the bubbles came. Now normally I like bubbles, but these smelled funny and tasted like yuck when one landed on my tongue. ILCH! The only nice part was that Mommy sat on the side of the tub with her feet inside where I was. I know it was just to help keep me in place, but it sure was comforting and I loved it that she got as spewed as I did! Heh heh . . . I think my shakin helped with that, but don't tell her that.
Second round of bubblestuff'n'spewrinse wasn't so bad. By then, I was pretty used to it. I was SO friggin glad when it was over, though! I got dried with a clean towel and Mommy laid out my blankie on the floor so I could dry off my belly and soothe my wounded pride. She said I did really good, though. Yay!
All in all, it wasn't so bad. We went outside and I've gotta admit, the wind sure felt nice next to my clean skin and coat. And I'm all shiny now too! Wait til my uncles and boyfriends see me! They'll love all over me even more than normal! I hate B-A-T-Hs, but I can always stand more lovins from the two-leggeds!
Peace out, Dudes! Woof!
21.5.08
BPhoCed
so here i am, nearin 40, here for bout . . . mmmmm 4 months, give or take. and i'm the BPhOC. 's'right folks, i BPhOCed . . . daily, almost. and what a freakin sideshow it is! BPhOCin AY!
so here's the first installment . . . rough draft, very much preliminary . . .
secret
Eternal Chasm of Strength, I do not breathe but that I yield me to Divinity. Show me now, be seen, breathe a command, create a moment, signify and send forth Your Breath - She Your Servant, Your Command. My life, my joanna, abides . . .
This Book seems to start off beautifully, does it not?
This one verse yielded 29 pages of just one set of Greek-to-English dictionary definitions. These are definitions from one book! No wonder my friggin books cost $500 per semester! dayum!!!
but hey, it's a worthfrigginwhile investment! my ass has sorely been whipped this term, and yanna . . . i'm lovineveryminitofit.
time to get started on somethin else new . . .
hasta, peeps!
Rx
so here's the first installment . . . rough draft, very much preliminary . . .
secret
Eternal Chasm of Strength, I do not breathe but that I yield me to Divinity. Show me now, be seen, breathe a command, create a moment, signify and send forth Your Breath - She Your Servant, Your Command. My life, my joanna, abides . . .
This Book seems to start off beautifully, does it not?
This one verse yielded 29 pages of just one set of Greek-to-English dictionary definitions. These are definitions from one book! No wonder my friggin books cost $500 per semester! dayum!!!
but hey, it's a worthfrigginwhile investment! my ass has sorely been whipped this term, and yanna . . . i'm lovineveryminitofit.
time to get started on somethin else new . . .
hasta, peeps!
Rx
4.3.08
just wonderin
if i'm still bein read
been so busy
damn blog's been all but dead
craziest damn thing
happened late one night
and i'm tryin to figger
what's wrong and what's right
i wanna write a bluez song
ain't got no smoke to bear
i wanna write a true song
all the wrong words in the air
i wanna write a love song
but i can't open my wine
i wanna write a blood song
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
ain't that crazy
craziest bluez u ever heard
ain't that crazy
bein shaken and not stirred
ain't that crazy
done lost my fuckin mind
ain't that crazy
can't even open my own wine
i wanna write a bluez song
ain't got no smoke to bear
i wanna write a true song
all the wrong words up in the air
i wanna write a love song
but i can't open my own wine
i wanna write a blood song
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
can't even open my own wine
no broken glass
no not this time
been so busy
damn blog's been all but dead
craziest damn thing
happened late one night
and i'm tryin to figger
what's wrong and what's right
i wanna write a bluez song
ain't got no smoke to bear
i wanna write a true song
all the wrong words in the air
i wanna write a love song
but i can't open my wine
i wanna write a blood song
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
ain't that crazy
craziest bluez u ever heard
ain't that crazy
bein shaken and not stirred
ain't that crazy
done lost my fuckin mind
ain't that crazy
can't even open my own wine
i wanna write a bluez song
ain't got no smoke to bear
i wanna write a true song
all the wrong words up in the air
i wanna write a love song
but i can't open my own wine
i wanna write a blood song
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
ain't got no blood that ain't mine
can't even open my own wine
no broken glass
no not this time
18.1.08
15.1.08
Lost in LXTR
Ok, so I've been here in Holyville for just over a week, and I've been getting lostlostlost drivin on the roads here. First because people in this part of PA drive like fuckin MANIACS! And I mean that in the nicest and most Christian way. But FUCK!
For instance, I'm on a stretch of road where 55 is the speed limit. I'm in the slow lane cuz . . . I get lost to easily to be in the fast lane most of the time. But I'm doin 60 (or 65) in the SLOW LANE. And doofball idiots are riding so far up my ass that when I fart in my car, they say pee-you in theirs. I tap my brakes. Softly. Then so hard that CGirl thinks she's gonna go slidin off the back seat into her water bowl. No luck. Assholes apparently like to ride the assholes of others -- asshole fetishites they are, after all. So I do the only thing I can do. Stop. Right there. So suddenly that they hit the horn only because it's the only thing they can do to keep their heads from doing it for them. I laugh my ass off. They give me the evil eye as they go around me. Teeheeeheeee . . . dumbasses.
Or how about on the highway, where the speed limit is 65 and I'm doin 75 in the FAST LANE. Ya think my ass is asshole free? Nada chance. I wish I was gettin more O outta people stickin theirselves up my ass like that, but as it stands -- or sits, as the case may be -- I have to be content with slowin all the way down to 55 and grinnin like I just got laid when they give me the evil eye as they go around me.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
SO, as a new denizen of Holyville, I've been gettin lost a lot. Even got lost tryin to get outta here to go get my kid and take him back to school.
Ok, side note -- that shit ain't NEVER happenin again. Love him dearly, which is why I'm gonna LOVINGLY stick his ass on a train and LOVINGLY wave at him as the train pulls bye-bye. IF I'm in town when he arrives/departs. Or IF he's in Holyville visiting when it's time to go back. Mama's too old for that, and Froggie ain't gettin no younger neither.
Anyway, I digress . . .
So I figure out today that my drivin ain't worth shit if I'm usin a map, but if I've got TBTs, I'm good to go. So I print out my first TBT, so I can hit Wally World. See, my FiyaGrrl done turned me on to kosher baloney and hot dogs. (See what you done did, FiyaGrrl?!)
Ennyway, so I print out Wally World TBTs, and lo and behold, I make it there and back in under six hours!!!! This is truly a day for rejoicin! Right? It's a 20-minute trip -- but LostGrrl here has been turnin it into six hours on the road, only the first three of which are actually fun. (Ask CGrrl, next time she gets to blog. She'll tell ya the REAL DEAL!)
So I'm thinkin Yippeee, right? No KoBo at Wally's, but I can do the TBT thing really really well! So I print out a TBT for Weis . . . darling little LXTR chain that seems to be a favorite of my fellow Holyville denizens. It's actually CLOSER than Wally's and one of them did have my kobo last week . . .
And two hours later . . .
LOL I took a detour.
It was a axident . . .
See . . . this is wha ha happen
K, see so Weis didn't have any kosher bologna, so I started on my way back. But then I saw a GIANT. And I thought, 'Hell yea! They'll have it!' Another round of disappointment, though . . . No kobo to be found . . . so I pulled out of the parking lot . . . and turned the wrong way. Not having expected to even SEE Giant, I didn't print out turn-by-turns from there . . . Sooooo . . .
I ended up driving all the way back to Weis before I figured out, 'Hey, I should be on 462 WEST, not EAST. So I drivedrivedrivedrive til I get to a safe spot to make a yoUie, drivedrivedrivedrivedrive back down 462 West, and then make the ten-minute trip home . . .
AND STILL NO FRIGGIN KOBO!
(((((AAARRRRRGGGHHH)))))
Ok, I feel better . . .
I'm safely back in Holyville. Maybe I'll wait til after our field trip to Phily before I hunt for KoBo again.
Ah well, I did get lots of KoDogs . . . they is YUM too. My FiyaGrrl knows how to feed me, just right. Now if I can just find more KoBo to keep my new habit going . . .
For instance, I'm on a stretch of road where 55 is the speed limit. I'm in the slow lane cuz . . . I get lost to easily to be in the fast lane most of the time. But I'm doin 60 (or 65) in the SLOW LANE. And doofball idiots are riding so far up my ass that when I fart in my car, they say pee-you in theirs. I tap my brakes. Softly. Then so hard that CGirl thinks she's gonna go slidin off the back seat into her water bowl. No luck. Assholes apparently like to ride the assholes of others -- asshole fetishites they are, after all. So I do the only thing I can do. Stop. Right there. So suddenly that they hit the horn only because it's the only thing they can do to keep their heads from doing it for them. I laugh my ass off. They give me the evil eye as they go around me. Teeheeeheeee . . . dumbasses.
Or how about on the highway, where the speed limit is 65 and I'm doin 75 in the FAST LANE. Ya think my ass is asshole free? Nada chance. I wish I was gettin more O outta people stickin theirselves up my ass like that, but as it stands -- or sits, as the case may be -- I have to be content with slowin all the way down to 55 and grinnin like I just got laid when they give me the evil eye as they go around me.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
SO, as a new denizen of Holyville, I've been gettin lost a lot. Even got lost tryin to get outta here to go get my kid and take him back to school.
Ok, side note -- that shit ain't NEVER happenin again. Love him dearly, which is why I'm gonna LOVINGLY stick his ass on a train and LOVINGLY wave at him as the train pulls bye-bye. IF I'm in town when he arrives/departs. Or IF he's in Holyville visiting when it's time to go back. Mama's too old for that, and Froggie ain't gettin no younger neither.
Anyway, I digress . . .
So I figure out today that my drivin ain't worth shit if I'm usin a map, but if I've got TBTs, I'm good to go. So I print out my first TBT, so I can hit Wally World. See, my FiyaGrrl done turned me on to kosher baloney and hot dogs. (See what you done did, FiyaGrrl?!)
Ennyway, so I print out Wally World TBTs, and lo and behold, I make it there and back in under six hours!!!! This is truly a day for rejoicin! Right? It's a 20-minute trip -- but LostGrrl here has been turnin it into six hours on the road, only the first three of which are actually fun. (Ask CGrrl, next time she gets to blog. She'll tell ya the REAL DEAL!)
So I'm thinkin Yippeee, right? No KoBo at Wally's, but I can do the TBT thing really really well! So I print out a TBT for Weis . . . darling little LXTR chain that seems to be a favorite of my fellow Holyville denizens. It's actually CLOSER than Wally's and one of them did have my kobo last week . . .
And two hours later . . .
LOL I took a detour.
It was a axident . . .
See . . . this is wha ha happen
K, see so Weis didn't have any kosher bologna, so I started on my way back. But then I saw a GIANT. And I thought, 'Hell yea! They'll have it!' Another round of disappointment, though . . . No kobo to be found . . . so I pulled out of the parking lot . . . and turned the wrong way. Not having expected to even SEE Giant, I didn't print out turn-by-turns from there . . . Sooooo . . .
I ended up driving all the way back to Weis before I figured out, 'Hey, I should be on 462 WEST, not EAST. So I drivedrivedrivedrive til I get to a safe spot to make a yoUie, drivedrivedrivedrivedrive back down 462 West, and then make the ten-minute trip home . . .
AND STILL NO FRIGGIN KOBO!
(((((AAARRRRRGGGHHH)))))
Ok, I feel better . . .
I'm safely back in Holyville. Maybe I'll wait til after our field trip to Phily before I hunt for KoBo again.
Ah well, I did get lots of KoDogs . . . they is YUM too. My FiyaGrrl knows how to feed me, just right. Now if I can just find more KoBo to keep my new habit going . . .
11.1.08
CGirl's Day
Well, just so you all know, I'm pretty happy up here too. Mommy's in class for three hours a day, so I get the whole house to myself. I watch movies and listen to music, and I bark for about five minutes every morning after she leaves for class. Sometimes Mommy admonishes me to shush, but most times, she just takes it in stride that that's just part of me being . . . well, me.
So, I go for two or three walks a day, plus long drives. The long drives are mostly because Mommy gets lost when we're coming home from wherever she drives us to. The good news is that she actually likes getting lost -- but I've gotta tell ya, after about six hours of getting lostedness, I'm really ready to just get home and into some serious pee-and-nap time. Mommy can just stop in some gas station -- but me, I'm pretty picky about where I pee. It's gotta be near home, otherwise -- in the words of Morgan Freeman in Shawshank, "I can't squeeze a drop." 'Course, Mommy's pretty picky too, but I've got picky down to a science.
Speaking of home, though, here I am today, hangin out on Monk Walk.
I like Monk Walk. Mommy can grab a smoke and I can say hi to all the two-leggeds that come my way. That's one of the coolest changes so far. Before I moved here, I used to be scared of EVERYTHING and everybody. My tail would go immediately between my legs and I would just cower everytime I went out anywhere or anytime anybody came near me. Now, I just growl a little -- and, hey, if you know me then you know that my growl means nada -- but my tail just wags and wags until my whole body is doing the wag-me dance. I just wanna know EVERYBODY, sniff their hands -- but Mommy won't let me sniff their butts. She says it's impolite to two-leggeds cuz they don't like having their butts sniffed. Oh well, they'll adapt. She says that soon, I'll have many more four-leggeds here, so that'll be really cool. I like the kitties across the hall, but I don't think they're used to the C4s like I'm used to the F4s. I think that they think that all C4s wanna do is chase and scare the F4s, but that ain't so. Ah well, they'll adapt.
Anyway, I think Mommy needs to do some laundry and unpacking cuz there's stuff EVERYWHERE. She told me that we're getting a new bed tomorrow AND two used chairs and a coffee table next week. WOW! All new furniture stuffs for me to hang out on while Mommy is in class.
I think I like it here. The H2s are really friendly and patient, and I don't get so scared of their cars and trucks like I did in that big city I used to live in. I get to run around on grass a lot, and when Mommy says, "Go say hi," I really do wanna go say hi. I like wagging my tail when H2s approach, much more than walkin round with it between my legs, and EVERYBODY smells either like F4s or C4s -- which really makes it easy for me to want to say hi. PLUS, I like the small town life. Livin is easy and except for having to share the bed, I like hangin out with Mommy most of the day and all through the night.
Well, I'd better jump off here so Mommy can go do laundry.
Have a good weekend everybody -- and to all my C4s out there . . .
WOOF, Dude! Peace out!
8.1.08
'Tis official . . . I am . . . a Seminarian. A Punk Preacher. A Mystic Minister.
Somehow, this seems a bit twisted . . . Rychus, yet . . .
Five books. One class. Three weeks. Five frickin books. Thick little fuckers too. Glad this is the short term and I get a break at the end of it. LoverGrrl, I dunno which of us is travelin to see whom but I've been feelin the urge to merge every second since our last mergickal moment . . . ain't never been so whipped in my life and I dunno if livin here in Holyville's done upped the ante, but before you came along it had been SO long since I'd touched . . . SO long . . . since . . . I'd wanted . . . I can't wait to give you me and have you . . . over and over again.
Hooray for Holyville, yea?
So, the new space still needs to get unpacked but ltlCgirl is havin the time of her life . . . so excited to be comin out o'her shell that she sacks out from the fatigue of finally bein a friendly four-legged and I just hafta shake ma heayud and laff my ass off at her. Til, of course, she decides that under-my-butt is the best place to keep her tired-from-runnin-EH-VA-REE-WHERE toodles warm at night. LtlShit, she is, but that's what I get for fallin in love with the ears that go poinkpoink when she's all happy and jumpin round like the Banshee she is.
LOVE bein in my own space. LOVE FUCKIN IT. My shit. My peace. My quiet. My noise. My newfound thug music love. (Yea, it's a fuckin hoot . . . go gangsta . . . keep poppin . . . rock witme let's git this bitch poppin . . . go gangsta . . . git rockin . . . like back when tha nigga was clockin . . . Fuckin Ay!
Tho lately, with the final projects from . . . well, here in Holyville, I'm guessin they're from UpThere . . . loomin on the horizon, it's been more Yanni than Gangsta -- I gotta figure out what I'm doin cuz three weeks ain't shit, knowhadeyemean?
Pretty up here in Holyville. Think I'm gonna love it for the next three years. My space. My shit. My life . . . and MyLoverGrrl . . . It's a fuckin hoot, ain't it just?
Somehow, this seems a bit twisted . . . Rychus, yet . . .
Five books. One class. Three weeks. Five frickin books. Thick little fuckers too. Glad this is the short term and I get a break at the end of it. LoverGrrl, I dunno which of us is travelin to see whom but I've been feelin the urge to merge every second since our last mergickal moment . . . ain't never been so whipped in my life and I dunno if livin here in Holyville's done upped the ante, but before you came along it had been SO long since I'd touched . . . SO long . . . since . . . I'd wanted . . . I can't wait to give you me and have you . . . over and over again.
Hooray for Holyville, yea?
So, the new space still needs to get unpacked but ltlCgirl is havin the time of her life . . . so excited to be comin out o'her shell that she sacks out from the fatigue of finally bein a friendly four-legged and I just hafta shake ma heayud and laff my ass off at her. Til, of course, she decides that under-my-butt is the best place to keep her tired-from-runnin-EH-VA-REE-WHERE toodles warm at night. LtlShit, she is, but that's what I get for fallin in love with the ears that go poinkpoink when she's all happy and jumpin round like the Banshee she is.
LOVE bein in my own space. LOVE FUCKIN IT. My shit. My peace. My quiet. My noise. My newfound thug music love. (Yea, it's a fuckin hoot . . . go gangsta . . . keep poppin . . . rock witme let's git this bitch poppin . . . go gangsta . . . git rockin . . . like back when tha nigga was clockin . . . Fuckin Ay!
Tho lately, with the final projects from . . . well, here in Holyville, I'm guessin they're from UpThere . . . loomin on the horizon, it's been more Yanni than Gangsta -- I gotta figure out what I'm doin cuz three weeks ain't shit, knowhadeyemean?
Pretty up here in Holyville. Think I'm gonna love it for the next three years. My space. My shit. My life . . . and MyLoverGrrl . . . It's a fuckin hoot, ain't it just?
3.1.08
Where am I this eve?
Hell, I dunno . . . somewhere suspended between passion and rage. Sometimes it feels as if I live within that suspension -- as if something waits to trigger my rage as soon as I feel an inkling of passion.
My Passion, she is my Light and Life, my Laughter and my Longing. Spending our first Yule/Christmas/Solstice in the warmth of her home, in her city and in her arms, . . . this was so much a loving learning time for us. To learn how to interweave passion and patience into our day-to-day life, balancing the Es and the Es within the braid that holds us together . . .
MyPassion, do you know how your loving me as you do arouses within me the desire to love you all the more? Do you know, PassionateOne, how my desire to love you all the more makes me long and ache for you, even moments after your truck pulls away and my plane leaves the air strip? LoverMine, I miss you . . . so very much. Selah.
The rage that awaited, anticipating my return from your arms . . . it is becoming, more and more, less than the nothing that it can only aspire to be. I think that is, perhaps, the problem -- that something that what was once actually something to me is quickly fading into less than nothing with every aggravation that it is responsible for bringing into my life. As in Merlin, when things become forgotten, they . . . cease . . . to . . . exist. They become angry, irrational, writhing and grabbing onto whatever shreds are left dangling in the wind.
I used to be that wraith. Happy New Year to the one who showed me that I'm better than that.
And Happy New Year to YOU, MyPassion, MyFiyaX2. This year is only the beginning of what I have in store for you, LoverGrrl . . . only the beginning . . .
My Passion, she is my Light and Life, my Laughter and my Longing. Spending our first Yule/Christmas/Solstice in the warmth of her home, in her city and in her arms, . . . this was so much a loving learning time for us. To learn how to interweave passion and patience into our day-to-day life, balancing the Es and the Es within the braid that holds us together . . .
MyPassion, do you know how your loving me as you do arouses within me the desire to love you all the more? Do you know, PassionateOne, how my desire to love you all the more makes me long and ache for you, even moments after your truck pulls away and my plane leaves the air strip? LoverMine, I miss you . . . so very much. Selah.
The rage that awaited, anticipating my return from your arms . . . it is becoming, more and more, less than the nothing that it can only aspire to be. I think that is, perhaps, the problem -- that something that what was once actually something to me is quickly fading into less than nothing with every aggravation that it is responsible for bringing into my life. As in Merlin, when things become forgotten, they . . . cease . . . to . . . exist. They become angry, irrational, writhing and grabbing onto whatever shreds are left dangling in the wind.
I used to be that wraith. Happy New Year to the one who showed me that I'm better than that.
And Happy New Year to YOU, MyPassion, MyFiyaX2. This year is only the beginning of what I have in store for you, LoverGrrl . . . only the beginning . . .
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