Bad storm gone

My girl Daisy's been wondering whaz up! Without totally airing everything, let's just say there's been a lot of hurt that I've both hurled and caught, mostly with my 3 sisters. Mom and Oh-Dad were brave enough to referee a sit-down yesterday. And I've got the emotional hang-over to prove it. But after two hours, things actually look a little brighter, feel a little safer, and appear as if we will move forward toward a better idea of what it means to be a family.

But family is a weird thing, I'm learning.

A mentor of mine has tried to explain that "family" is not a spiritual term. "Family" is a term that comes from the material world, and with the material comes all sorts of baggage with how a family should be. You know what I mean: the Norman Rockwell bullshit? the Brady's? the Ingall's? the Huxtable's? All cheery and happy with a 6th sense of always knowing what the other members need at the exact right time, forever on the same wavelength and completely "getting" the others. Fictitious crap, really.

What I'm seeing is that family, while not a spiritual term, definitely comes with opportunities. For me, it's THE opportunity to see just how little I've grown.

I have 38 years of old ideas and views about what family is "supposed" to be. What I experienced yesterday was a mixture of expectation and surprise. I have a deep hope that my family will always love me no matter what, and the fact that Mom, Oh-Dad, and us girls hung in there until the proverbial David Hasselhoff was singing on a tumbling-down wall, proved to me that they are willing to love me. That expectation was met.

What was surprising was how skewed my perception is. A lot of shitaki mushrooms hit the fan this summer and the pile grew from there. My recollection of events was completely different from what was shared by my sisters. My recollection of events doesn't even include some people who were there. And that frightens me. It scares me that my memory is that selective. It's spooky that what I heard was WAY different from what was said. (So I guess it's a good thing I went and got me a shrink and a psychologist last week.)

I know there's the old adage about an event: there's her version, there's my version, and there's the truth.

But what also came to light is just how careful I must be with this blog. When I started it, it was more of a private journal where I vented my religious anger and self-righteous crap. But it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it felt like I'd swallowed the family hedge hog (poor Otis). I started taking personal pot shots at people close to me. It was usually tongue-in-cheek, joking kind of stuff, but there was an edge to it.

What I'm learning is that if I'm going to honor this penchant for writing, I must use it in a loving, positive way (thank God the election is over). What I am seeing is that when I get caught in negativity, it creates such a shit-storm in me that everything I touch turns to guano.

A few weeks ago I confessed to my doctor that I didn't want to drink, but was afraid I would (hence the additional head guys). Despite my years of recovery, my head was full of such fear and anger and worry and dread that it was manifesting itself in all sorts of harmful behavior. And that's some dangerous stuff. And I was reaping what I'd sowed.

So does this mean it's all daisies and lollipops? Any of you who know me even a tad know that I'm not capable of prolonging sickening, cavity-rich, dimple'ed BS. But I no longer look at the Litterbox as a dumping ground. It's more a platform for sharing that which is good, or changing, or happening. So, I guess I'm back -- a little deflated, a little-less angry, a lot more grateful, and delighted to report that the Magdalene heard my prayer for reconciliation . . . and she delivered.

I send you all so much love---

Namaste~

When churches fight . . .

I just received this funny, fun fun and found it too fab not to share. Besides, it proves my theory wrong that the catholics are total nut jobs. It would appear from this little conflict between a southern catholic church and an across-the-street presbyterian church that the catholics have a pretty good sense of humor. It's certainly not the first time I've been wrong about a group . . . Enjoy!

Eve WAS framed!

A few years ago, I received the best Christmas present ever, from the best mother-in-law ever: a sweatshirt on which was printed "Eve was framed." Is that not the best? Does she not "get" her rabble rousing daughter-in-law? I raise this because a dear friend of mine, a catholic/jew, for one reason or another found me worthy to receive this little story. I've never heard it, but it's a goodie. Thanks, Boobee!

A Visit to Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's

Young Enoch skipped up the pathway, effervescent with excitement. Father Jared and Mother had never let him go so far from home before, all by himself! With this visit to Adam and Eve, he could prove to his parents that he was indeed a big boy, and could handle himself in the wide world, East of Eden.

Adam was out working, but Eve were very happy to see him, as always. There seemed to be a special twinkle in Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's eye-- she must be proud of me, too, Enoch thought. Eve brought out a delicious porridge she had just made. "Eat, eat, my child!"

"Ur-Bubbie, this is delicious! What is it?"

"Well, I've been potchkeying around in the kitchen with the new barley crop, and I came up with this recipe. Do you like it?"

"Yes, Ur-Bubbie. What do you call it?"

"I don't have a name yet. What do you think?"

"I think you should call it 'Grape-Nuts'!"

"What an odd name? What made you think of that?"

"Well, the barleycorns are small, like grape seeds, and the porridge is crunchy, like nuts."

"Oh, Enoch, you are so clever!"

After finishing the mandatory second helping, to prove to Ur-Bubbie that he really did love her cooking, Enoch broached the main purpose of his visit:

"In school today, the teacher told us that we needed to know more about our human family. All the other kids were talking to Great-Great-Great Grandfather Seth, but I decided to go all the way up the line and talk to you!"

"That's a good boychik, Enoch. It's good to aim high. For some reasons, your cousins never come to me when they get these school assignments. But I think that you will have the best report of all. What do you want to know?"

"Well, Ur-bubbie, I was hoping... what I mean is... well...."

Eve put her hand-- roughened from much work, but still firm and strong-- on Enoch's arm. "I know why you are stammering, mein Kind. You want to ask about the Hard Times, and you don't know how to bring up the subject."

"How did you guess?"

"Enoch, I have lived through a great deal, and brought many children into the world. I have nursed them back to health when they are sick; I have heard them babble when their fever is high. I know how to see the vines of a question ready to spring up out of a child's heart, even when the seeds are only beginning to sprout."

That gave Enoch the courage to ask the hard question. "The other kids were saying that it was your fault that Ur-Zayde and you had to leave the Garden. I was sticking up for you. I said that you and Ur-Zayde always made your decisions together, and that people shouldn't go blaming you. They said, I'm just a little kid, and what do I know? So I want to hear the story from you, Ur-Bubbie."

Eve patted her great-great-great-great grandson's arm again, but her voice changed in timbre when she spoke. "It was a very hard time, and we had a huge fight. Adam was blaming me, and I really thought it wasn't fair. But even worse than that, I thought that we would never have a happy moment again. I had never known sadness until then, and it was so hard... Do you understand me, or is this over your head?"

Enoch shook his head vigorously, to show that he was old enough to understand.

"But the most amazing thing happened after we left the Garden. For the first time, we began to know each other, really know each other. We worked together to grow wheat. You can still see a patch of the first wheat we cultivated. Even though we have better crops today, I still put in one patch of the first wheat, just for old times' sake. We were so tired after a day's work, that we would just drop off and sleep like babies. But I was happy, because Adam needed me, and I needed him. We couldn't just wander around and pick fruit, like in the old days. We sweated plenty to get the food that we ate. But it tasted even better, because we had worked for it."

Mother Eve went on in this vein, and Enoch drank in the stories. He wanted to know other things, too. But he was afraid to bring up the difficult subject of Abel's death-- none of the kids ever talked about it. They only whispered scary snatches of a tale, and Enoch wasn't sure if he wanted to know how much of it was true.

Mother Eve, of course, saw all this in her youngest one's face, and she finished her story: "Of course, there's a lot more you want to know, but that will have to wait until you are older. You have already grown so much! You came here all by yourself. Let's measure your height... see, you come up to the second cord on the tent-flap. Next time, I bet you'll be even taller, and I'll tell you more. Meantime, take this back to your Mama, since you like it. Tell her to come to me for the recipe." And she gave him a pot filled with Grape-Nuts, to take back home.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michael Panitz

The flaw with going public

For many years now, I've been told that pain is the touchstone of growth. James Joyce said, "Mistakes are the portals of discovery."

When I first started this blog I couldn't explain the 'why' of it. Sure, I may have tried, but foresight is not my strong suit. Today I understand the 'why' behind this venture and it's as the subtitle says, "a dumping ground of one's own." This is my litter box, where I unload, where I stash, where I celebrate, and where I wallow. I have no intention of sounding like some poor, tortured, artsy-fartsy soul. Rather I must clarify THE point behind this space: healing.

I cannot speak for Jane Doe or Joe Schmoe, I can only speak for me and my need to "write it out." I'm sure you can dig up all sorts of personality traits and planetary alignments to argue why this be the case, but so what. The truth is, I write what I feel and what I feel is usually not something I hide all the best. This has its perks and drawbacks.

When I started The Litterbox, I was sending out my feelings in hopes of meeting others with similar passions or ideas or experiences; maybe connect with someone further along this journey. I was guarded, afraid of anyone learning my identity because I was letting EVERYTHING out. I was droppin' the F-bombs, knockin' the church, pissin' on the hierarchy, and just venting in a hugely freeing, no-holds-barred kinda way. And it felt good.

Initially, very few people knew of The Litterbox because I didn't want to offend anyone. The Litterbox was not intended to be a weapon of harm. Again, I created it at as a vehicle for healing and as the posts began to grow, so did my confidence. I began telling more people about it. Ego-maniac that I am (yes, I'm a spade), I thought some of my mates might be interested in the stuff I was penning. Recently, I even linked some posts to my Facebook profile. In hindsight, this was not the most thought-out act.

For the first time, my identity was publicly linked to The Litterbox. I was okay with that, I didn't think I had anything to hide. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about some earlier venting and joking I'd done at the expense of family. Yup. I fucked up, again. Months ago, hurting over long-time drama, I made some remarks about various family members. Whether they were real or imagined DOES NOT MATTER.

What matters is that by linking The Litterbox on Facebook, my family had access to all 90+ posts. The remarks were dug up and feelings were hurt. Justifiably so, and there's nothing I can do to take it back. Sure, I removed the offending posts from the blog. But this doesn't make things right. It doesn't right the wrongs done to my aunts or to my sisters or to my parents. "That horse has left the barn," a friend wrote me. I have done all I can and an "I'm sorry" just doesn't feel enough.

If there's one thing I do with The Litterbox, it's be real. I will continue to be real, to share my angst and frustrations and hurts and worries. I will continue to shout it, to show it, to sing it. I am human, I am flawed, I am fucked up, and I will never be quite right. And I'm learning to accept this about myself. I will continue to make mistakes for the rest of my days. And in spite of this, I know that I am a good person doing the very best that I can. Sometimes my best is fabulous. Sometimes my best sucks ass. But I can honestly say that I'm trying to do better, one moment, one lesson, at a time.

Much love to you all.

Searching for the Green Tara

So having edited many past posts and deleted some others, it's time for me to get back to the basics: literature! Thanks goes out to my friend and fellow blogger Miss Wooly Daisy who recommended I read Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna. She shared it after reading of my experience with Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

Longing for Darkness is the story of writer China Galland's search for female connections within the Buddhist discipline. I'm only a third through the book, but Miss Daisy must know my heart as she really directed me toward a significant read. Thanks, gurl! This Galland chick and I have a few things in common: we share similar catholic roots, we are both sober moms, and both of us desire female spiritual guides, deities, and gods.

So last night, with flashlight in hand (and Moira's head on my shoulder), I read of Galland's meeting with the abbot of the Dalai Lama's monastery in McLeod Ganji, India. She was sent to him by the Dalai Lama himself to learn more about Tara, who "according to the legend . . . knew that there were hardly any Buddhas who had been enlightened in the form of a woman. So she was determined to retain her female form and to become enlightened only in this female form."

While it is said that Buddhist practitioners see no difference between men and women, it is also admitted that there is some feeling of discrimination, albeit "superficial," the Dalai Lama states.

What Galland shares with the abbot is a visualization she's experienced. "After sitting for five years, some of my Christian roots began to crop up in my meditation. What has evolved is a kind of mandala in which I visualize Tara, the Virgin Mary, Buddha, and Jesus Christ."

This one paragraph is ripe with coincidences for me, but for this post, the significance that struck me is not in the presence of the Christian figures, but what Tara is doing: "I imagine Tara taking a pitcher of compassion and pouring it over the heads of all the people I love--my family, my friends, everyone, as well as all the people I don't love--that I find difficult or hard."

Tonight, after a long, afternoon meeting with Moira's surgeon, I thought of that visualization. I have no control over others, no control over their actions, their thoughts, their experiences, how they interpret, or what they say. But I do have control over myself and I must allow others the right to live according to their own will. I don't have to like it, but I do have to accept, and that's where the visualization enters: I must imagine my God, the great She, pouring warm, loving compassion over the heads of all the people I love and don't love, and trust in those oft repeated words of Julian of Norwich, "all will be well." Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but "all will be well."

Trying to 'roll' with it

I wish I could write that it's the good stuff the universe continues to bring, but with the good, also comes the bad, though I hate to use such labels. I've been slacking on my prayer, meditation, and readings. Not just slacking, rather, just not doing. "I'm fine," I tell myself. But what I'm really saying is, "I don't fucking care." And that sucks to admit, but there it is.

I don't believe in vengeful deities. I believe in gods that allow me freedom to sow my actions and reap my consequences. There's no judgement, no penance. This is important stuff for me to remember, especially during days like today when I want to blame my pain on the gods and the humans. But the universe doesn't roll that way.

Today's lesson, which I shall call, "What happens when Jenny's a lazy toad," goes something like this . . .

On my way to Coffee Klatch this morning, after dropping off the kids at school, I cruise with my decaf, talking to a sister on my celli. Suddenly I feel something in the road and then the 'thwump, thwump, thwump' of a flat tire. Grrrr. Hanging up on my sister, I draw a temporary blank on the donut in the trunk of my car. "Do I call a tow truck?" I wondered. No, my husband! Always my man in waiting, ready to swoop in and clean up my shit, he reminds me of said donut, but not to worry, that he'll come change it.

"Well, I could at least get it unpacked," I thought. So with owner's manual in hand (yeah, it took that just to get the tire unsecured from the trunk floor), I discovered changing a tire is not all that difficult. In fact, it's pretty empowering. Thirty minutes later and I called off my husband and rushed off to my meeting. (Wasn't it nice of a passerby to snap this photo of me in action?!!)

After another 30 minutes, Coffee Klatch ends. When I drove off to get a new tire, I spilled my water bottle in my lap. More specifically, on my crotch! So, there I find myself, wandering around the local box store looking as if I'd just pissed myself. Nice. It's at that moment that I notice I'm beginning to feel a little 'not right,' a wee agitated, a bit edgy, as if the winds of change may just be blowing against me.

Well, let me just say, the day hasn't gotten much better. Think freshly baked pizza, a nice cup of red Kool-Aid, and my mother's recently cleaned white carpet.

Yeah, it's gone that good . . .

Time to pray, meditate, and read!

How grey be the 'hard' & 'soft' of it

Who was it that said when a mother pushes out her child, nature pushes in the guilt? Obviously I've got a lot of it with Moira. She survived an early gestation with alcohol, survived alcohol-tainted breast milk, and even survived her mother's sobering up. I do not mean to write so flippantly of this, it is the reality Moira and I share.

And whenever I screw up now, my "internal critic" likes to unpack all that old guilt that I've tried to process and blow situations waaaayyyyy out of wack. Like, for instance, this new hole in Moira's mouth. Upon meeting with her doctor today, we learned that this type of opening may simply have occurred on its own. Her diet and the difference between "hard" and "soft" foods? Turns out, we were doing ok. According to the Otolaryngology Clinic, "soft" foods are "anything that doesn't crunch." Whew.

But what's this mean for Moira's mouth? Well, there remains some, if not all, of the bone graft. However, doctors won't know for sure until January when x-rays will determine whether or not it has taken root. In the meantime, we continue with the foods she's comfortable and get to take the oral care up a notch to include an antibiotic mouth rinse and use of a water pik. We'll know more in 2 weeks when we return.

Mistakes and responsibility

It was 6 weeks ago today that my 8-year-old Moira had an alveolar bone graft. This was by far the most intense surgery out of the many she's had since she was just 5 months old. My daughter was born with a cleft lip and palate.

My husband and I were of the rare group lucky to learn their unborn baby had a cleft. With this information, we were able to use the final 2 weeks of gestation to prepare ourselves, and mourn the loss of our ideal. It was a harsh blow. No parent wants their child to be anything less than perfect, no matter how delusional that may sound. And honestly, I was afraid of the ugliness of clefts.

When we were told what the doctors saw in the ultrasound, I flipped out. I thought it was the worst thing ever! Having a couple of cousins with clefts, I remembered different surgeries they went through, the scars on their lips, the language still used to describe them, and the ignorance of people who encountered them. I was so angry that I would have to deal with this.

But as the days passed, I grew more calm. I would lay, soaking in the bathtub with my arms around my belly and tell my child I loved her and couldn't wait to meet her. I would cry with fear that people wouldn't love her, that they'd be frightened or startled by her, that they'd use ugly words like "hair lip." I was so scared that she would grow up feeling like something was wrong with her, that she was less then.

So when it came time to bring her into this world, my husband and I had progressed through many stages of grief over the loss of what we'd expected and were pretty psyched to meet who we were being given! And she was fabulous from the moment she entered the world! And so tough! Being born with a cleft means you're going to have a lot of surgeries over the course of your life, most of which will occur before age 18.

At 5-months-old, Moira's lip was closed. At 1 year, her palate was closed. At 3-years-old, a hole or "fistula" opened in the soft palate so a skin graft was taken from her hip to close that hole. Then back in late August of this year, a piece of bone was taken from the same hip and grafted into her hard palate.

Her surgeon told us that the procedure couldn't have gone better. That if a perfect surgery could be had, it just did. He then drove home the importance of oral care, basically warning that if the graft failed to take root, it would likely be failure to keep the mouth clean or be the result of trauma to the face.

I thought we'd been careful. Super sensitive to teeth brushing (at least 4 times a day). Hyper vigilant with teachers that she be suspended from P.E. and recess. What we failed at was the diet. At about 3 weeks post-op, Marty and I allowed her to start eating soft foods. Foods like plain hot dogs, cut up, and soggy, microwaved chicken nuggets. Why I thought these would pass as "soft" I don't know. I have since learned that these foods are classified as "hard" and shouldn't be given until 6 weeks post-op.

This goes beyond your run-of-the-mill "oops." This was a fuck up. And this massive mistake may have cost Moira another surgery.

Last night, as I sat listening to her read, I heard it. I heard this nasally whistle of a sound that only happens when there's a fistula in her palate. My heart stopped. "Moira? Is your hole back," I asked her. "Yeah. I noticed it this weekend."

My husband and I immediately grabbed a flashlight and, yup, there's a hole up there. In fact, we can see the front of the hole above her gum and the back of the hole in the hard palate behind her teeth. I felt so numb and helpless. Still do, in fact. But let's not forget the overwhelming sense of RESPONSIBILITY. To play the "if only" game is stupid, but it's how I feel right now: stupid that a hot dog or nugget would pass as "soft."

So today, after numerous messages left with her surgeon's office, I finally got through to a receptionist at 4 o'clock. When I told her that I "heard" it, she freaked out. "Oh my God. I'll get Dr. John and have him call you right away."

Turns out, Dr. John's in China, but he wants us seen ASAP by his attending. So tomorrow we head back to the hospital, expecting no work to be done other than charting a new course of action.

I just fear all that is unknown until then.

BitchFest 10 hits it home

I'm speechless. Something that rarely happens. Last weekend marked the 10th anniversary of BitchFest, an annual gathering of 6 chicks who met in college, worked on the school paper together, and somehow felt the need to regroup.

The lot of us did not start out as a particularly tight clan. In fact, some of us hardly knew one another "back in the day." Our one link was 'The Daily,' all of us serving as various editors at different times. There was one other link, too. Helen. She's the Numero Uno, Queen Bitch, if you will. And Oct. 18 will mark the 5th anniversary of her freedom, being set free after an ugly battle with brain cancer.

BitchFest began when this diva, Helen, finished a Peace Corps tour in the African bush, and she was eager to see her girls, her Bitches. Five us: Waller, Helen, Diane and me all converged at Bradford's near Madison, Wisconsin. It was really just a weekend to reconnect, drink beer, look at photos, and talk.

The following year the sixth bitch, Dukes, entered the fray and completed our roster. And every year since, most of us have dug deep into our schedules and found the willingness to put time aside for the Bitches. And BitchFest has seen some pretty significant changes in the personalities of her cast, and such changes nearly killed this sacred gathering.

After last year's "Huckleberry Bitch," in which we rented a houseboat and sailed the mighty Mississippi for a weekend, a few spiritual issues were raised that I, for one, was not prepared to handle in a mature, grown-up way. In fact, I behaved like a Bad Bitch: a whiny, divisive, smelly, pirate hooker Bitch.

Turns out, despite the near-death of this gathering, everyone came together in the spirit of Bitch and "put it out there" as we hashed out old beefs. Never have I felt more naked, having this group see me as I really am: flawed, broken, and ornery as hell. And negative, too. Ew. I left our gathering feeling more whole, but also more aware of the work I need to do on myself. I am such a pain in the ass, and can be so critical of others. I see that this is no way to live.

So to my bitches, I love you all sumpin fierce, and I have your backs in all that you do. XO.

Finding my road back to Her

Some are aware of my reading Sue Monk Kidd's "Dance of the Dissident Daughter." I've mentioned how amazed I've been to read someone putting to words feelings I've had about the inadequacies of mainstream religion in its approach to the Sacred Feminine. Inadequate is really an incorrect term, though, because to be inadequate would indicate some attempt to be adequate. There is none. Through my personal studies as well as the research of others, the Feminine Voice has been shut up, stomped down, locked away, and silenced. But not destroyed.

Unlike Kidd, I don't receive many spiritual messages in my dreams. Minus those nightmares about me drinking again (trust me, it's pretty ugly), my dreams are just the incoherent babblings of an asleep brain. But I do see the signs in life, especially when I look backward.

I cannot remember the first time I experienced the lack of Sacred Females with whom to relate. Sure, there's the Virgin Mary, but who can relate to her? I couldn't. Then there was Mary Magdalene, but my 4th grade catechism teacher said she was a sinner, no one to worship. When I reminded her, "Aren't we all sinners?" She told me, "Not that kind of sinner."

So I resigned myself to the fact the Virgin was all I had. Sure, I got pretty good at the rosary, but I didn't feel a longing to know her. The lack of spiritual role models who were of my gender festered in me. As I grew, so did my anger. When I turned 16, I finally had the freedom to skip church. I'd take the car, lie to my parents that I was going to the late mass, then spend the next hour driving around. Anything was better than hearing that bullshit, male-focused, fear-based doctrine.

It wasn't until my senior year of college while taking a "Women in Antiquity" course, did I learn that early pre-Christian cultures worshipped a female deity. It was before the Bronze Age, before "man" wielded weapons and learned that brute trumped fertility. I felt on fire when I learned this! Yes!!! There is a Feminine God out there. But I lacked the ability, the wherewithal to find her.

Then Dan Brown came out with that beauty of a "fictitious" tale about Mary Magdalene's womb being the Holy Grail. Brown's "DaVinci Code" renewed my sense of hope that there was more out there, kind of like my own personal X-Files. Looking at his bibliography, I was lead to other authors.

Margaret Starbird's "Woman With the Alabaster Jar" propelled me even deeper into this growing belief in the reality of a Feminine Sacred. I read another of her works, "The Goddess in the Gospels" and moved on to translations of the "Pistis Sophia," "The Gospel of Mary Magdalene" and "The Gnostic Gospels." To be honest, I haven't made a deep effort to muscle through the last three, they're on my self, waiting for me to be ready.

But reading Kidd's "Dissident Daughter" is confirming beyond any doubt that the Feminine Sacred is real and it doesn't replace the male image of God nor is it relegated to the slightly lower status of Holy Spirit, but is a spirituality in combination with the patriarchal view held for thousands of years.

Some people roll their eyes at me, others blow me off as a bitch; there are those who aren't comfortable with it, and still others who don't care. All of these reactions are fine. All I know is that patriarchal religious doctrine DOES NOT WORK FOR ME. All I ask is to continue my search without your judgement because I know I'm onto something. I can feel it in my bones and sense it in my heart and gut. And I see the signs.

Just 30 minutes ago, listening to some quality Bob Edwards public radio, he interviewed musician Joan Osborn on her new disc, "Little Wild One." He introduced her by playing some bars from her one-hit wonder: "If God Was One of Us" and those bars included the lyrics, "If God had a name, what would it be and would you call it to his face, if you were faced with him in all his glory? What would you ask if you had just one question?" Immediately I thought of a question, "Where's the women?" Then Bob proceeded to play the opening bars of the lead track, "Hallelujah in the City," from her new disc. While the disc pays homage to her home-away-from-away, New York City, I cannot deny the messages I heard in both songs:

I have been unfaithful.
I have been untrue.
How'd I find the road that brought me back to you.
Hallelujah!

I have spent my life yearning for the Feminine Sacred, but refusing to do the work to find Her. And in spite of myself, I found the road that is bringing me back to Her. Hallelujah!

Ideology & Religion Shit List

I just received this in an e-mail and had to share because I think it's totally funny! No, I am not the genius who came up with it ... but I play one on, oh screw that!

Taoism: Shit happens.
Confucianism: Confucius say, 'Shit happens.'
Buddhism: If shit happens, it isn't really shit.
Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.
Zen Buddhism #2: What is the sound of shit happening?
Hinduism: This shit has happened before.
Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.
Islam #2: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.
Islam #3: If shit happens, blame Israel.
Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserve it.
Protestantism: Let shit happen to someone else.
Presbyterian: This shit was bound to happen.
Episcopalian: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve the right wine with it.
Methodist: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve grape juice with it.
Congregationalist: Shit that happens to one person is just as good as shit that happens to another.
Unitarian: Shit that happens to one person is just as bad as shit that happens to another.
Lutheran: If shit happens, don't talk about it.
Fundamentalism: If shit happens, you will go to hell, unless you are born again. (Amen!)
Fundamentalism #2: If shit happens to a televangelist, it's okay.
Fundamentalism #3: Shit must be born again.
Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to us?
Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work.
Seventh Day Adventism: No shit shall happen on Saturday.
Creationism: God made all shit.
Secular Humanism: Shit evolves.
Christian Science: When shit happens, don't call a doctor - pray!
Christian Science #2: Shit happening is all in your mind.
Unitarianism: Come let us reason together about this shit.
Quakers: Let us not fight over this shit.
Utopianism: This shit does not stink.
Darwinism: This shit was once food.
Capitalism: That's MY shit.
Communism: It's everybody's shit.
Feminism: Men are shit.
Chauvinism: We may be shit, but you can't live without us...
Commercialism: Let's package this shit.
Impressionism: From a distance, shit looks like a garden.
Idolism: Let's bronze this shit.
Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen; shit IS.
Existentialism #2: What is shit, anyway?
Stoicism: This shit is good for me.
Hedonism: There is nothing like a good shit happening!
Mormonism: God sent us this shit.
Mormonism #2: This shit is going to happen again.
Wiccan: And it harms none, let shit happen.
Scientology: If shit happens, see 'Dianetics', p.157.
Jehovah's Witnesses: >Knock< >Knock<>

Jehovah's Witnesses #2: May we have a moment of your time to show you some of our shit?

Jehovah's Witnesses #3: Shit has been prophesied and is imminent; only the righteous shall survive its happening.

Moonies: Only really happy shit happens.

Hare Krishna: Shit happens, rama rama.

Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit!

Zoroastrianism: Shit happens half on the time.

Church of SubGenius: Bob shits.

Practical: Deal with shit one day at a time.

Agnostic: Shit might have happened; then again, maybe not.

Agnostic #2: Did someone shit?

Agnostic #3: What is this shit?

Satanism: SNEPPAH TIHS.

Atheism: What shit?

Atheism #2: I can't believe this shit!

Nihilism: No shit.

Matt 14: The wisdom of Care

So in my return to my bible read, we find the son of King Herod, Herod of Antipas beheads John the Baptist in a move to save face. In response to some fabulous dance moves, Herod promises the dancer anything and she, at the urging of her mother, asks for John's head. The King James version hits more directly at the cause of John's death coming as the result of womens' acts. (Bullshit, I know.)

Anyway, when Jesus hears of his friend's death, he takes off via boat for some seclusion. Somehow word got out, though, as to where he was headed and when he made land, the crowds were waiting. Now being the pissy, self-centered beast that I am, I would soooo have shown 'em the hand and said, "Dudes! Beat it! I need some 'J' time!" But in his beautiful coolness, he totally welcomes the throngs!

By nightfall the disciples tell Jesus to send the crowds away so they can go and scrounge up some food. To which Jesus replies, "Em, don't think so--start cookin'!" And then we hear the whining, "But we've only got these 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish!"You know the rest of the story, but what I love about this tale is the infinite wisdom of Care. At every moment of my life, my needs are met. Maybe not how I want them to be, but they're met nonetheless. It was Julian of Norwich who said, "But all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner thing shall be well."

Also in this chapter we get the story of Jesus walking on water. Sending off his disciples to go sailing, Jesus then heads for the mountain for some sorely needed alone time. In neither the Life Recovery Bible or the King James version is there reference to any worry or outcry from the disciples about the stormy motion of the sea. But in the wee early hours of the morn, aware of the tough waters, Jesus heads off to meet his fellas. Of course they're freaked, who wouldn't be seeing their friend strolling through the waves (for a great water walk tale, check out The Shack).

But what struck me about tonight's reading was, again, the message of Care. The Care, the Protection, the Peace came to them. There was no asking, no pleading. The disciples weren't cowering in their vessel, scared they were goin' down. Just as the crowd of 5,000 (plus chicks and kid-lettes) was fed aplenty without even thinking about supper.

This was a good chapter with which to resume my read. Out of these two stories I've heard since childhood did I gain a deeper reminder of how futile fear really is. In the words of that beautiful Jackie Warner, "The Universe is taking care of me and the Universe is taking care of you."

Namaste~

Lonely so long...

It's pathetic how long I've tried to avoid a return to this blog. I know, I could have just deleted it--but... I really couldn't. While I may fart around with this endeavor for a good couple of decades, I am determined to read this thing. I believe I've reached a point in my searching that to be ignorant of what this book contains leaves me unable to search as deeply for that "God of my understanding." Not that I'm looking for some Christian deity, mind you, but so that I may better understand the various views.

Presently I'm reading "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" by Sue Monk Kidd and feel both gratitude and fear. Grateful that there is another person who appears to have gone through the awakening I must be in the midst of, and fearful because I have no idea what lies on the other side.

I'm still in the anger phase of "the awakening": pissed off at how patriarchy has ruled this planet since "man" first wielded metal and trumped creation with might. I'm so flippin' pissed off over the silent power and control wielded over women that continues into this very moment! Kidd reports in her memoir that this anger will pass, but must allow to by refusing bitterness. Hmmm. It's awfully hard not to be bitter... but it really gets me nowhere.

And I guess that's why I've chosen to return here. To get this thing a-movin' again. I don't want to be brittle and frigid and angry, I want to open and able to allow others to be whoever they want to be. And I know that's not going to come easy...

Me, a dissident daughter?

I always know when I've been watching too much CNN. I get all frothy about the jowls and adamant that "we" stay up on the presidential race and Gustav and the other stuff that normal people can handle staying up on. But me? Emmmm, I'm not that normal, I go mental. So I've shut off the tele, folded up the paper, and cracked open a new book: "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" by Sue Monk Kidd.

I'd happened upon it during one of my many Amazon visits. I was initially put off when I saw the author. Kidd's latest book, "The Mermaid Chair," was one I really did not like. But then I remembered her "Secret Life of Bees" and how it set off in me a hunger to know more about the 'black madonna' of whom she wrote. So I've decided to leap into "Daughter."

What I understand thus far is that this is a tale of Kidd's very personal journey from the rigors of religious observance to a more intuitive relationship with self through the Feminine Sacred. I can only speak of my own experiences, not to other women's, when I say I have spent my 37 years very pissed off not only at catholicism, but the patriarchy of our planet!

Unlike Kidd who speaks of toeing the line, minding her manners, swallowing insults, and biting her tongue, all in an effort to be a good girl, I continue to spend so much of my energy letting everyone know how much of a good girl I am not.

Being a good girl has never worked for me. Being a bad girl? Hmmm. Well, at least I can say I've not gone quietly into that dark night.

I look at my relationship with my husband. And for better or worse, it is so insanely clear how I'm the Alpha Dog in this matrix. He spends the weekend canning, making salsa, drying plums. I spend the weekend caulking windows (and building Lego spaceships with the kids). And while we both seem to enjoy the stuff we do, I cannot help but feel like Al Bundy. I am not a Becky Homecky goin' all nuts over dust and laundry, but I wish I was. And while it may seem unrelated, it's all part of the same frustration for me. I'm not a good girl, keeping a perfect home, making the pies, and ironing the sheets. And while I know this about myself, I have yet to accept it and it's why I keep reading because I really think it's a spiritual thing.

It's not my intention to sound whiny and bitchy, though I do both very well, and it's also not my intention to hang an entire gender by their short-and-curlies. I'm just grasping to find a sense of self and a sense of focus that will work for me.

So, cheers to another leg of the journey.

Dinos & Death

A couple days ago, fellow blogger Choral Reef posted about dinosaur bones being absorbed into the earth and later mined as fossil fuels and manufactured into plastic. Plastic that was littering her floor. . .

And then Liberal Redneck, in response to Friday's God post, shared about the age of all humans being 13.73 billion years old because we pulsate with the same energy that started this planet, we are embodied with the same energy that made those dinos roar. . .

But then this weekend, the 17-year-old energy of a boy was launched back out into the universe. I knew this young fella, knew he loved to be outside, knew he was psyched to be a Senior, knew he felt embarrassed about some of the things he'd done, knew he could be pretty impulsive, knew some of his pain and fear, but I really didn't realize how deep his pain and fear ran.

Unconfirmed reports state he got himself into some legal trouble over the weekend and feared being sent away. So he got out a gun.

I'm angry and sad and pissed off and a little Maiasaura-esque. Dude! What the fuck?!

I don't believe such an act was "stupid." To call it "stupid" a) reeks of judgement and b) suggests he was of sound mind, able to make an informed, balanced choice. No. I believe he was so scared, so lost, so without hope, that the only solution for him was to make the ultimate flight. And that makes me sad. But I also must believe that he was not alone during those final moments. That something was with him, something holding him in that dark time, that something was with him no matter what he did.

Whether his 'essence,' his 'spirit' is contained in a human vessel or rocketing through our universe, I must understand that life does not stop, it simply changes form. And my hope is that whatever form this dear one has now taken, he is finally without the pain that drove him from our human world.

The very atoms that we are composed of have always existed as waves of potential and always will exist whether they comprise a human, a dinosaur or a black hole. ~Liberal Redneck

Quiet time? How 'bout some E! News?

So this, along with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, has been my morning routine. What had previously been a good 30 to 60 minutes of quiet contemplation filled with spiritual readings and meditation, has degenerated into a noisy, in-your-face, turbo-charged countdown rocketing me into the day. And how can I really expect to make any spiritual progress when I start it with Ryan Seacrest?

I used to be more disciplined. I used to search for zen and get all 'ohm' but now? I fake it. Sure, I download the latest Krista Tippett to my iPod, keep "Jesus for the Non-religious" and "Christ the Yogi" on my headboard, I even contemplate the spiders I've displaced with my weeding, but true silence? My teenage alter ego says, Fuck that!

I have to admit, I'm a little afraid of what will drive me back to such discipline. Normally, it's pain. And that just doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun. And that speaks to the core of my problem. I want to have fun, I want to be entertained, I want to live without cause or worry or responsibility. And then I have to wake up.

Damn alarm clock!

Maybe one day I'll make it back to my oatmeal with walnuts, my 24-Hours-A-Day book, my Daily Reflections, and my basic text. Maybe one day I'll simply decide, "You know, being all wacked out on sugar and caffeine really isn't helping me!"

But right now, for today? I'll watch with anticipation, waiting for Guiliana to stab Seacrest in the neck with the heal of her Monolo. Those flakes are GRRRREAT!

Oh God, I'm in trouble. . .

Spiritus contra spiritum

Don't you hate oversleeping? It really sucks when such extended snoozing makes you late. Wednesdays are the day the kids and I sleep in, when nobody goes anywhere, and I only work a couple hours at night. Normally this means the coffee mug's in hand by 7 and Maclane's usually on my tail. But today? While Marty shoved off around 7, both kids and I didn't crack open the ol' eyelids until 9:30!!! And when I sleep that late, it's just too much! Unless I'm going to lag around in jammies all day and have only myself to be concerned with. But when I get that much sleep and I've got a couple of kids to man, it just blows. And what blows even worse? Dreaming about WORK! And not just a normal day at the office, but work involving a loved one.

Yesterday I received a phone call about getting a friend into alcohol detox. The previous evening I'd been with this person and was baffled by her behavior--uncontrollable tremors, nonsensical muttering, bizarro stuff that I assumed was some weird residual effect from a bout with cancer she'd had a few years earlier. The phone call told otherwise. By Tuesday, she'd been 3 days off the booze and the hallucinations were setting in. I didn't know she drank.

Despite my work in the field of drug addiction, I froze like a deer in headlights. WTF? I suddenly didn't know the protocol, my only thought was that she needed detox and NOW. Fortunately the caller, her sister, simply needed support and confirmation that what she was seeing was a medical emergency. She took the bold move and called 911. That was the absolute right decision, but not the popular one. Refusing visitors, my friend is sitting in a detox unit as family mulls over their options.

It made me think of a recent episode on This American Life where a man takes care of his mother and likens her alcoholism to that of the possession of Regan from The Exorcist. In our cups, we say and do ANYTHING to cover our ass and get what we want, which is usually 2 things: a) more booze and b) to be left alone. And when we don't get those 2 things, we're horrible to be around. And seeing my friend tonight, I could see the wear and tear. Guilt is setting in as her sister refuses to see her, accusing her of betrayal.

My heart aches for the family because this is nothing new. It was nearly 5 years ago that their brother was found dead in his car. He'd finally drank himself to death, having dragged the family through decades of his alcoholism. He'd had loads of opportunities to get well, but when the question was put to him: "How would you live?" He said, "I'll drink." And he died.

As my friend faces this question, my prayer is that she find a flicker of hope to take one big, giant leap and fathom a reality without booze. It's so scary, that fucking question. So stark. There's no running from it. And it's not answered just once, we must dig deep and answer it everyday, in all that we do.

In his writings to Bill Wilson, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, psychologist Carl Jung wrote of the strange impact alcohol has on our spiritual core. He termed it "spiritus contra spiritum." Spirits (liquor) against Spirit (soul), a great window into why this is such an ass kicker. . .

Square & generous with all

Making the 4-hour trek to Rochester yesterday, I enjoyed the company of one of my favorite men. Kinda kitschy in my book, I never took him serious. How could I with those fruity trumpets tooting in the background as he sung of some blazing ring? But John has been a long-time friend to my husband (and I try to give my husband's friends a chance).

When Marty and I began dating, it was common for me to drive up to his cabin only to find John had beaten me to the party. Singing about bibles and rusty cages and Tennessee Studs, John's camp and silliness gave way to deeper meaning. Kinda like my interest in Marty. From some goofy RAGBRAIer, I began to glimpse the true depth of my future husband's character. The more I listened to Marty's friend, the more John's soul revealed itself, also revealing Marty's. I started to hear the raggedness of John's spirit, the longing for spiritual peace, and I slowly began to understand how medicinal such sharing was to my husband's love-torn soul. We met only months after his first marriage had ended.

Marty is a man of few words and amazing strength of character. Now before you go thinking he's some quiet sage all bearded and zen, know that he's not lost his wild, irreverent side. For instance, his favorite cuss? Jesus Fuck! Can you believe that?! (And people think I'm going to hell?)

Anyway, as I've journeyed with my dad through this cancer business, Marty, in a way all his own, has been with me, unswerving in his support. Two weeks ago, when I left to accompany Dad for his surgery, we had no idea it'd be 7 days before I'd return home, and without Dad! Could Marty have been a prick? Would he have been justified in being pissy? Hell yeah! But was he? Not only did he back me 100%, assuring me I was doing exactly the right thing, he even had the kids make get well cards for their grampa. And when I did get home, did he dump the kids on me and run for some Marty Time? Nope, he continued to man the home front while I bumbled around. Never once did I pick up even a whisper of exasperation. Amazing.

So where does 'John' fit into all this? Yesterday, when listening to his 1994 album American Recordings I found myself paying close attention to the song "Oh, Bury Me Not" and how much it personified the essence of my husband. Specifically, the following lines:

Just let me live my life as I've begun

And give me work that's open to the sky

Make me a partner of the wind and sun

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high

Let me be easy on the man that's down

Let me be square and generous with all

"Let me be square and generous with all" absolutely speaks of Marty. How I could ever warrant a 10th of this man's love, I'll never know. Back when we first met, Marty and I both agree there was something crazy spiritual about our connection. And yet I was still a drunk, always on the look out for something different, something better and I would pray at night, "Please God, don't let it be Marty. Please!" But God, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, whatever the hell is out there, knew what they were doing. Where the reward is for poor Marty, I don't know. For me? It's him. And I love him somethin' fierce.

Ego, Burritos & Holy Water

I have a friend who once explained that our mind, our Ego, can be deflated during moments of great physical strain and/or heavy emotional upset. And I know what he means. Take, for example, the birth of my second child. This kid had a head the size of a watermelon and I pushed like hell for a few hours before he decided he was finally ready to "come on down!"

When I got up to shower, a nurse warned me that I may be shocked when I looked in the mirror. What all that pushing did to my body was cause swelling. My eye lids were bruised, my eye balls were devil red, and my face was beyond puffy, I looked like a friggin' Teletubby!

But what it did to my psyche was leave me very quiet, very empty, very chill. And it was awesome. Now my son's birth wasn't the only time I've experienced the peace of Ego deflation, but it is the strongest example, and this week brought on another of these experiences. From Saturday through Tuesday, I was more psychotic than usual, freaking out and shaking and being more than your average nut job as I tried to prep myself for Dad's surgery.

What I was missing during this nutty state was the warning this same friend gave me, that the Ego is like a snake-in-the-grass, doing push ups while I'm sleeping. It's not something to fear, he assured, but a mental fact of which I needed to be aware. The Ego will return, he said, usually when I least expect it, and then once again, I'd be thrust into making everything about me. Fuck.

But my Auntie Kathleen was driving from Indiana to support Dad and when she picked me up Monday for our 4-hour road trip, she set the tone by asking, "So who's gonna be Thelma?" Sure I was uptight and in knots during surgery, but when he sailed through and Tuesday gave way to Wednesday, I started to feel a peace wrap around me. I'd been scooped up in a Big Dipper of support from my incredible Auntie Kathleen and we had a ball, not at Dad's expense mind you, just laughing and talking and being upbeat, which is exactly what Dad needed.

Yesterday, however, when Kathleen and I were shopping, it began to dawn on me that she was returning to Indiana via Iowa. And I would remain in Rochester without her. Thus began the rising of a Bad Moon. I could almost feel that friggin' Ego about to make everything about Jenny. And who wants to be around that? That kind of soul-suckin' jerkiness does nothing for healing! My dear Auntie left this morning and by lunch, I was sweatin' it, just Dad and I, and we're kinda runnin' outta things to chat about. Then Dad said discharge may be bumped from Monday to Wednesday! WHAT?! (Hear that? It's Jenny, making it all about her.) So by late afternoon, I was ready to cry.

Heading to my hotel's smoking patio, I sat and let it out, all the while, sucking down a cancer stick. "Boo hoo, what am I gonna do?" I knew I needed to find a phone and call someone to help me fight the self-pity. I also knew I needed some AA. But what I got was a spiritual experience. In that crying, I must've been communing with some spiritual force. WHAT?! Yup. I'd returned to my hotel room, phoned my husband and then prepared to hike it to a nearby meeting, when all of a sudden my cell phone rang and it was a couple of pals from college. Turns out they live in a nearby town and would be at my hotel in 5 minutes. JOY!!!

So Marty and Laura tossed me in the back of their car and we enjoyed giant burritos . . .

And we cruised a Sam's Club for 4 cases of Propel water . . .

Strolled through Linens & Things looking for stuff not needed. . .

And finished our outing at a Coldstone . . .

Back at Dad's bedside by 9:30, it dawned on me, "Holy shit! I think I just had me a miracle!" Not that this week and Dad's recovery hasn't been miraculous enough, but in my time of shallow need, self-centered and absorbed, a beam of love and laughter was sent.

So as I sit and sip from a water bottle found during yesterday's shopping with Auntie, I've decided I'm gonna keep trudging that spiritual path. And keep drinking the good stuff. . .