TIME...or My Existential Side...

 Time Has Come ~The Chambers Brothers

Time…somewhat illusory, don’t you think? I’ve thought about time my whole life really; and from a whole bunch of different perspectives and viewpoints depending on such variables as my age, circumstance and frame of mind. In fact, I even observe time in visuals – one in particular. Since I was a child I have always pictured the year – 12 months - like a clock. January is at 12:00; June at 6:00 and so on. I don’t know what prompted that visual but I’ve always had it and when I think of a month, I see it on a clock - always. But I digress…

Time…it is something we often take for granted, especially in our youth. I never thought about tomorrow in my teens and twenties. I didn’t plan a thing and lived only for the day. I suppose I had my reasons for that…doesn’t matter now. I remember at the age of 25, thinking, wow, I’ve got 25 more years before even hitting 50! Time in those days was an endless luxury. Days were longer and there seemed an infinite array of possibilities laid out before me. By the time I hit my mid 30’s my perspective was starting to shift a bit. I saw my mother and step-dad aging; watched their friends die and worried…how much longer before time would force me to endure their loss? I noticed the days becoming shorter. Still, at the age of say 37, I perceived an extravagant amount of time ahead of me – more than 10 years until I even hit fifty.

Time…it is camouflaged by seconds, minutes, weeks, days, months and years. 40 was a bit of a turning point for me. The folks were ill and where once I’d counted on them for assistance, they now counted on me. My own children were in the early stages of adulthood and I unwittingly became a grandmother at the age of 41. I felt the noose of time tightening around my neck.

Time… “is a sort of river of passing events, and strong as its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.” ~Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.  I’m now in my early 50’s. Somewhere – I’m not sure of the exact time or place, or the year or particular age, in the midst of the endless luxury of time, a small seed of awakening has been occurring, bringing with it the awareness of the passage of time. My view of time is vastly altered from the perception of my youth. Oh, I still see the clock – that never changes; only now I hear the ticking as well. My parents are gone and I’ve lost a dear friend. My children are well into adulthood and I’m watching my grandchildren grow, oh so fast. There is no denying the speed with which each moment in time is passing.

Time…, “Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.” ~William Shakespeare. The interpretation of the word illusion is: “action of mocking;” “something that deceives or misleads intellectually;” “Perception of something objectively existing in such a way as to cause misinterpretation of its actual nature,” “a pattern capable of reversible perspective” (Merriam Webster). And that is time; an impossible to win game, an anomaly and something not to be grasped. Time is like a runaway train. You cannot keep up with it and don’t know how it has slipped through your fingers. I was just feeding my baby girl and yet 32 years have passed. I’m a grandmother with sore fingers, hormonal issues and gray hairs hidden by a $4 bottle of dye.

Time…it’s like a thief in the night. At the age of 53 I must conclude that the only way to grasp time is to let go of it. It’s not real. What is real is the moment in which we/I exist right now. The ones before and the ones to come are phantoms that exist to steal us away from savoring the present moment. Too much awareness of time forces one to live in a story of the past and/or a projection of the future, melancholy, angry or wistful for what has been and anxious, striving, fearful or discontent for what may or may not come.

Time has come today…to acknowledge and cherish this moment in time and recognize that is all there ever is.

Time…
“Now the time has come,
There are things to realize.
Time has come today…
Time has come today…”
~Chambers Brothers

Foiled again…or, would you like some cheese with that whine?

Foiled:  To prevent from being successful; to thwart.

I swear, there’s a conspiracy. Because, really – I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s my destiny? Perhaps I have a subconscious need to fail? I was born under a bad sign? I’m being tested…Someone has to flunk out…why not me?

I awoke in a bit of a funk this morning. It happens occasionally. As a rule I try to avoid thinking about this stuff, but sometimes it has its way with me. Today must be that day.

Since this is my blog and there are only about three people actually who read it, allow me to wallow whine for a few moments without guilt.

I’ve always liked the story about the Phoenix rising from the ashes. You know, that mythical bird whose life burns fiercely at the end and is reduced to ashes? But from the ashes, a new phoenix egg is hatched and the phoenix rises to live again; a resurrection of sorts or a miraculous comeback. There are a few different versions but the one I like best is where “the new phoenix embalms the ashes of its old self in an egg made of myrrh and deposits it in the Egyptian city of Heliopolis (sun city in Greek)” (Wikipedia). It is said that the bird's tears contain healing abilities of pureness, and their cry is that of a beautiful song.

Anyway, I have liked to apply that scenario to my own life (delusions of grandeur?). I have believed that hard work, energy, determination and ambition would somehow bring about that “rebirth” that I was looking for. I would overcome my humble and misguided beginnings. Damn it all, I was going to prove something, although now, for the life of me, I can’t say exactly what.

I realized early, albeit not early enough, that I had to do something to ensure that I would never have to depend on another person for survival again. It became my mission.

I’m a musician - at heart - primarily a singer. It’s in my blood, my family line – it’s me. I wanted to learn an instrument and took a few piano lessons but felt I needed to work toward something with which I could support myself and my family after a divorce in my 20’s left me with 2 small children, a home, no child support and a $7 per hour job. So I went to school..for 20 years on an off. I took advantage of government programs for single moms. After I remarried, I took out federal loans to continue because after all, I was making sure I could fend for myself. I wanted to major in music but couldn’t see how I could support us on a musician’s salary. I also longed to study psychology but thought it was a tenuous link to a decent financial future. I chose human resource development, not because I loved the idea, but because it sounded doable. So many manufacturing companies in the area that would need HR people. I obtained a degree in HR, not quite making it into the field – somehow still stuck at the insurance agency. But no problem!  Surely a master’s degree would be the thing. So, I got a master’s in training and development because it was easy – I could continue on at Oakland University and attend off campus sites which was easier for me with my full time job. Additionally, Instructional design, the emphasis I chose, had the possibility of earning a nice sum in the future.

Fast forward to the future – 2009. I graduated 3 years ago. I am still working for the same small insurance agency that I have been at for almost 22 years. I cannot, I repeat, CANNOT, get into my field. In fact, I cannot seem to get into another job anywhere. It is not for lack of trying by the way (ok, not trying that hard lately).

I am not doing any music…I suppose I should be but I don’t know how anymore. I don’t want to go to church and I don’t want to sing worship music. I don’t play an instrument and there’s not a huge market for 53 year old singers who don’t even have their own repertoire and/or instrument. Yeah, boo hoo.

I am very interested in social activism and work on the fringes with a group that is currently being revitalized but I somehow feel lost there as well.

I have concluded that I have wasted so much precious time and energy doing things I felt I was supposed to do, that were supposed to help me get started on my path to ……I don’t know what…somewhere, but instead, find myself running up against my old nemesis yet again; the stone wall.

I still have desire to work, be successful, do things I love, but I may be running out of energy, willpower and vision. Don't get me wrong, there are many wonderful things about my life, but for this particular pity party I'm focusing on my work/creative life. 


As is often the case, I’ve learned my lessons well and I know what mistakes I’ve made…now! I have discovered them just a bit too late. Well, in truth, it’s probably never too late to figure out what you did wrong…but hey, this is my whine okay? While there is life left to salvage and while I’m still one to make the best of a situation, i.e. … taking lemons and making lemonade, the sadness over what could have been lingers and as I am wont to do, I revisit the losses occasionally and entertain a moment of mourning self-pity.

Foiled again. Worst of all...foiled by my own choices or lack thereof. 

But wait, there it is…that teeny part of me that is an eternal optimist (I hate her sometimes). But she’s in there nonetheless. That’s the part that makes me try again. So, like that frickin’ phoenix, I will dig myself up out of those ashes, metaphorically speaking, and rise again.  Well, at least, I'll keep on trying.  Ghaaa!

WE LIVE IN HOPE

Every underprivileged and or minority group believes they have cornered the market on despair. To the impoverished, under-paid, out of work, hungry and homeless, there is no more dire straits than theirs. To be fair, for each group with their own particular paradigm, the feelings are real, palpable. But the truth is, where there is one pocket of misery, you can be certain that somewhere, there is another that is much worse.

Should that thought bring comfort and cheer? No…but it may perchance provide a sense of solidarity with those to whom life has been less than kind and the knowledge that one is not alone in the dark. It may offer a vague unnamed sense of relief that can only come from knowing that one’s present distress is not the darkest of scenarios.

So, we take our peace from counting our blessings and thanking the powers that be that we aren’t so and so, and them over there… and thus, we are comforted and go on to live another day. We live in hope.

White Hot Truth

So, I’ve mentioned that I’m a bit of a rebel right? Yep – from day one I have been the polar opposite of most of my family.

My father came from a long line of staunch Republicans. My mother had a laundry list of searing prejudices. In my young teens I protested the Vietnam War on Kennedy Square in Detroit on a number of occasions, knowing that my parents would disapprove and that my half brother, who was a decorated officer in the army, had done at least three tours there and been wounded. My dad was so proud of him. Actually, I was proud of him too, although I barely knew him. He is much older than me and I'd spent very little time with him. Still, I couldn't reconcile my feelings about that god-awful conflict. Little as I knew at that age, I felt in my heart that it was wrong.

I rejected the racial prejudices of my mother and quite frankly, went out of my way to befriend the very people she disdained. Was there spite involved? Maybe a little...but I didn't agree and so, believed it was my duty to forge my own path.
So, I guess you could say there was an element of rebellion involved. But, in spite of the fact that I became very busy at a very young age raising two children and trying to keep a family together; in spite of the fact that I took a lengthened detour through fundamental Christianity; and, in spite of the fact that I tried very hard to fit into a more conservative mold through some of those years, I found that when I came out on the other side, my basic viewpoint still leaned toward the “bleeding heart” liberal view.

The fact is, I cannot tolerate intolerance and I despise arrogance. I hate lies and deceit. So, good for me right?...champion of the underdog…purveyor of peace, source of great tolerance… Not so much.

Recent self-reflection has revealed an unpleasant dichotomy between my theory and my practice. Turns out, I’ve always been intolerant of, what I perceive to be foolish. But now I find that intolerance reduces itself to an even baser state; a place where I may sometimes bait and exploit said foolishness – possibly for my own entertainment; possibly to solidify to myself that it is, in fact, foolishness, and maybe to garner for myself a feeling of superiority as well. There you have it…the ego - run amuck. There is no peace in that. There is no tolerance in that. There is no diplomacy or kindness in that. There is no zen in that. And there am I – all smug and awash in my own perceived intelligence. I don’t like that about me. I'm working on that.

My parents are gone. My only "family" other than my husband and children, are people I barely know - my mother's family in Scotland and my dad's in, well all over the place really, but my brother lives in Tenessee. I have never told him the truth about my political leanings. At presidential election years, he always asks me if I'm ready to cast my vote for __________(input republican candidate). I say yes. Liar! But I don't want him to hate me, especially when we didn't have any relationship for over 20 years after our father died and my brother is one staunch republican. Oy! So, as much as I am for the truth, I'm a hypocrite as well. A rebellious, 53 year old hypocrite. That sucks. But I don't intend to tell Jim that I voted for Barak Obama, hate the war, watch and support Michael Moore movies and sit on various and sundry boards that support liberal causes. But that is the white hot truth.

Grandchildren

"Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old." ~ Mary H. Waldrup

A new granddaughter was born at 8:50 am on Sunday, May 31st. Abigail Kate weighed in at 5 pounds, 10 ounces and 19 inches long. She was one month early and gave us more than a few anxious moments during the past two months or so. But she�s here now and the wonder and joy of seeing her makes it all worthwhile. Abby is our 9th grandchild and second granddaughter. While we dote on all of our boys, the rarity of little girl in our midst has us all quite giddy. In fact, one of her aunties is quoted as saying that Abby's parents may need a restraining order as she feels she may be prone to hogging (stalking) her new little niece. Of course, this is the mom with three boys! She needs a shot of girly now and then. We're also happy for Sarah, our first granddaughter. While she holds her own with all the testosterone at family gatherings, she will no doubt be thrilled at the new baby cousin who also happens to be a girl . We will count on Sarah to show her the ropes. She is our original family princess!

The other cool thing about a new baby girl in the family is clothing - baby girl clothing to be specific. Shopping for baby clothes is always fun, but shopping for clothing for a baby girl borders on euphoria. What don't they make for little women in training? And talk about pink. Our little Abby will be living in a pink wonderland much to the delight of her mother, grandmothers and aunties. Good thing too - her mother and dad bought a new puppy last summer. She is a female Yorkie Poodle mix named Isabella - Izzy for short. My daughter was spending way more than was wise on elaborate pink outfits and acoutremeau for Izzy. She needed a girl. So it's all good.

I haven't blogged much in the last month or so. I've been too busy working, planning a shower, planting a garden and receiving a new member into our beloved family. I've had lots of ideas to write about, but nothing that seemed important enough to take the time out for until this joyful event. Being a grandparent is amazing - there's really nothing like it. When I look into my granddaughters face, I see my daughter, 32 years ago and remember my own mom, now gone, looking with adoration at her new grandchild. Now I understand.

"Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation." ~Lois Wyse

"Grandchildren are loving reminders of what we're really here for." ~ Author Unknown

"A grandchild fill a space in your heart that you never knew was empty." ~ Author Unknown

"Grandchildren don't make a woman feel old; it's being married to a grandfather that bothers her." ~ Author Unknown (I added this one cause it made me laugh)

"A child needs a grandparent, anybodies grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world." ~author unknown

"Grandchildren are a grandparent's link to the future, and grandparents are the child's link to the past." Author Unknown

Seriously?

So it was Monday, about two weeks ago, which is bad enough if you ask me; but compounding it was the fact that I had a few forbidden glasses of wine on Sunday night. I have sworn off wine for quite some time but it just seemed necessary that Sunday night to…I don’t know…stretch out the weekend, extend the feeling of freedom, none of which it does in reality. Reality is just a tough Monday. I don’t always sleep well when I drink wine so I was a few hours short on sleep. To top it off, it snowed on Sunday night.

Now, this is Michigan. A little snow doesn’t rattle us. But it was April 6th and had been almost 70 degrees on the weekend and after a long snowy Michigan winter, it was kind of the last straw. But whatever. Thinking that the snow was the real wet kind and the temps not too low, I heated up my car so the snow would hopefully just slide off and I wouldn’t have to scrape. But in the true spirit of Monday, all snow was intact on all windows. I was running late so I figured that I’d use the wipers and roll the windows down to get the snow off.

Again, I have lived here all my life! I know about snow okay? I had all of my stuff on the car seat including a bunch of shower invitations I was mailing out for my daughter’s baby shower. I’m sure you rational thinkers already guessed the outcome. I rolled the windows down but the snow stayed in position, for as long as it could really – before it fell into the car – all over me on my side and on all my stuff on the other side including the invitations. So that was the start of my Monday. Note to self – you know better than that – it has never worked!

The rest of the work day was probably “business as usual” but in my somewhat altered and slightly stressed state, things seemed a bit out of proportion. And man, was I tired. I won’t go in to all the murky details of a work day that also happens to be a Monday. Suffice it to say that I relieved to see 4:30.

I left work and drove to pick up a prescription at an area Costco. On my way home, I was passing a cemetery that my best childhood friend happens to be buried in. She’s been gone a long time and I don’t go often anymore, but I thought about her and decided I’d stop for a minute.

I parked and got out of my car, stepping on the snow covered grass to walk toward her grave which is maybe ten yards from the road. I took about three steps when my left leg sunk calf high into soft wet mud. I almost fell but caught myself as my right leg sunk in as well, just below knee high. I can’t tell you exactly what went through my head at that moment. But picture, images of biblical proportions – the ground opening up and swallowing me…hands pulling me into the grave…candid camera, just to name a few absurdities that passed through my head at warp speed. Before I even had a chance to pull a leg up out of the muck, I sunk even further. Within seconds, I was at knee level in wet mud on a freshly dug grave.

To say I panicked is an understatement. But to my credit, I didn’t scream. As a rule, I generally flourish under pressure and after I got my bearings and realized there were no hands groping, no ground opening up – no living dead… just me…standing on a freshly dug grave that had been camouflaged by snow, having a Monday. Note to self – go straight home after a day that started out like this.

It took a little doing to get my feet out of the muck – I was down pretty deep. And my next few steps were fraught with exertion through yet more of the freshly dug grave. I had a long wool dress coat on which made my escape a little more awkward. I finally hauled my mud besotted self on to solid ground and looked around to see if anyone had seen this debacle. Nope. Thankfully, I wore short boots that day for the first time in a few weeks because if I’d worn shoes, they would now belong to the deceased, whomever he or she may be. I looked at my friend’s gravestone and decided to forgo the visit. Note to self – only visit cemeteries on good days.

That crazy little experience bothered me on so many levels. I mean, really? Sinking into a grave in a cemetery on a gloomy Monday evening when I feel like crap both mentally and physically? What’s up with that? Is the universe trying to tell me something? Is it a sign? Is it God? Or am I just looking for an excuse to have a glass of Monday wine? I decided on the latter. So, I had a glass of wine and ate half a bag of chocolate Easter eggs for dinner. All better! Note to self – there is a word for this…I think they call it self sabotage!

Keepin' it Real

I read something on a blog yesterday that, had I been drinking a beverage, said beverage would have come out of my nose. I said that, well…….for effect really, but the truth is I laughed hysterically, unable to speak, tears streaming down my face. My husband looked on waiting to hear what was so funny as I guffawed with helpless abandon. A blogger that I follow talked about seeing her young child off on the school bus one morning last week and overhearing another parent put her small child on the bus saying, “don’t give in to Satan.” Excuse me…I’m laughing again.

I get that it may not be a real gut buster for you. My husband, while amused, did not understand my extreme mirth. But in my world, my past, it is significant. I may have heard that a few times…Dear God, I may even have said that a few times. My two children are grown now. I don’t know if I used those exact words and I’m not asking them…. Let’s just say they knew more about Satan at a young age than anyone needs to – probably ever.

I don’t deny that there is evil in this world. But I no longer believe in a personal devil. To put it simply, I think that God and his energy is in all of us, good and bad alike. Kind of like the glue that holds everything together. We have choices and we have work to do. The evil is in our humanity – that thing that most of us, no, all of us struggle with on a pretty regular basis. We’re born our own little entity and the whole world revolves around us. We are first as children unable, and later, unwilling or to self-absorbed to look beyond our own little life paradigms. We struggle to gain control over the selfish tendencies that often dominate us. Sometimes we are successful and sometimes give in to the darker side of human nature. In some cases, the result is catastrophic. But the fight is ongoing in all of us. A lot depends on the kind of role models we have adopted or had thrust upon us and even more on our own insights, inner work, and introspection, as well as our relationship with the creator of the universe, however we view that entity.

My daughter, at the age of 7, gave away an expensive Cabbage Patch doll that she had wanted badly because she had heard that they were made by minions of the devil who could possibly speak through them. No, she did not hear this on the playground, but at church. There was actually a sermon in our church about Cabbage Patch Dolls (I never bought in to that one). But she heard it from one of the children in youth church whose mother had her burn her Cabbage Patch doll because of the brouhaha about the dolls and because the kid thought the doll had spoken to her. Oy! My daughter didn’t tell me she had dispatched the evil doll for quite awhile because she thought I might be upset about it. That little red headed doll, Alena Diane, cost $30 on sale in 1984 – a lot of money for our young family at the time. But when I did find out, it wasn't the cost that upset me. It was that my little girl had been robbed of the simple joy of receiving a doll she had wanted and loved.

But back to my main point: So, if the little kid messes up, did the devil make him do it? What I really want to say is how bad I feel for that poor little tyke getting on the bus to school to learn letters, numbers and socialization, and having to battle Satan as well during that busy day. Ugh! The worst thing Satan has done in that case is steal what should be a carefree time of childhood that is way too short to begin with.

FREEDOM!!!

I just came back from a walk at the beach. It’s a beautiful day; sunny, blue sky, a few billowy clouds, low fifties, very windy, and the tide was coming in – some of my very favorite walking conditions. I started walking regularly last spring with the intentions of eventually running. I ran when I was younger and loved it but gave it up years ago. Over the summer I hurt my knee a few times trying to run, mostly because I have a little too much weight on me to put that kind of pressure on my knees. So, here I am again, trying to talk myself into a regular walking routine after work, with hopes of turning it in to a running routine eventually. Turns out it’s actually quite the struggle just getting myself to walk every day.

But today, I decided to walk at the metro park beach near our home. I pretty much had the beach to myself – surprising really. And invigorating, and exhilarating, and oh my – I don’t have words to describe it. I had my Mp3 player on, listening to a mix of favorites. I was so alone there that I could actually sing and do a few little dance steps while I walked. What a rush! I walked about three miles. I sang, I laughed, I smiled at the sky and the birds and the water and the sun and God. I said thank you a whole bunch of times. It was awesome and in stark contrast to my mood when I came home from work today.

I felt free. I don’t know how long it has been since the last time I really experienced that feeling but it must have been a long time ago because it was foreign, and yet kind of familiar and it was good. I’m not even sure what I mean by free. It's not like I'm talking about slavery vs. freedom or religious oppression vs. freedom or anything huge like that. It's freedom in a personal sense - a feeling that I remember, maybe from my youth but it was long ago and far away. It was delicious and I want more. So, when I got home, I researched freedom, trying to tie it to something tangible, real, something I can describe.

The French philosopher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau said, “Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.” The funny thing is, that it seems that one may not miss freedom until one experiences it after a long period of chains. So my mission, if I choose to accept it (wry smile) is to find out what freedom is; what that feeling is and how I can get it in everyday life. Can I?

Will it require giving up my job, or my home which keeps me tied to my job? Then I'd be free to live under the bridge... Shall I take off on an irresponsible trip to wherever my heart leads – perhaps become a modern day hobo. I'd miss my blow dryer and AC. Maybe pull away from family relationships that tie me down? That won't work...I'm kind of hooked on the fam. The possibilities are endless.

According to Wikipedia, freedom can also mean “inner autonomy or mastery over one’s inner condition.” Ah...sounds a bit more like it. And, a lot more work. What exactly is my “inner condition?” Yeah, loaded question and not for this post. Let’s just say it involves less sugar, less wine, less of lots of other things and more of many others. Still, that doesn’t explain that familiar long lost exhilaration I felt today that I equated with freedom.

Perhaps freedom, at least that fleeting and exhilarating sense of it, is an illusion meant only for small interludes of sanity in an insane and constantly moving world. Or, maybe it is something personal that means something different to each soul.

I've noticed that when I blog, I always try to come to a resolution at the end of the post. I don't have one today. But that's okay. I'll keep looking to recreate that glorius feeling more often. See you at the beach!

Perceptions II

You know how you can be going along, minding your own business, feeling okay – no big problems? Everything is status quo; nothing but the little everyday annoyances that pester everyone, like stupid drivers, rush hour and whiney customers – irksome, but nothing that really breaks a wave on your radar. Then, for reasons unknown, ripples roll across your sea of calm. You’re not sure why but suddenly, everything shifts and you are left uneasy and without a clue.

Sunday was my birthday. It’s not like I’m all thrilled about being further into 50 something, but on my birthday, I’m a bit like a kid. I mean I have a birthday song…”Today’s my birthday.”… You’d have to hear it – but I digress. It’s not about presents or cards or cake. That’s all nice but it’s more. Maybe it’s about what I’ve come through in my life and the fact that I’m still here – a survivor against the odds – and with a beautiful family to boot.

Anyhoo, I was sitting at the table at my daughter’s house for a birthday dinner with my family. Everyone is talking and laughing and we’ve just had a nice meal. And then it hit – the shift. Nothing perceptible changed – only a shift in my own mind. No one else noticed a thing. Everything just continued on. I kept smiling and laughing, but on the inside, I was scared and sad. I wanted to cry but I didn’t know why and I couldn’t point to any one thing. I just wanted to go home.

The feeling persisted the rest of the evening. We had cake and ice cream, talked a bit more and left. When we got home, I washed my face, put my pajamas on and wrapped up in a blanket on the couch near my sweetheart, looking for solace in what is my personal safe harbor.

The next day, everything was fine. But, I thought about it all day. What causes that kind of shift in perspective, that jumbling of personal paradigm, especially when nothing has changed? Is it a blip in my psyche or a rumble in the spiritual realm? Maybe I need more medication – don’t quote me on that.

I don’t really have an answer. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that at that table were many of the people who are most important to me. I recall a conversation that I had with my husband on the way to my daughter’s home about the recent deaths of four teenagers killed by a drunk driver just a

few miles from there. We talked about how it could have been any of us sitting at that light waiting to turn, only to be destroyed by the poor choice of a complete stranger. No warning, no way of escape – countless lives altered.

I guess you could say, the more you have, the greater the risk of loss. But that is too simply stated. It doesn’t matter if you have one loved one or ten – a loss is a loss. All I know is that I had a small tremor beneath the surface of calm reminding me that all life is transient and precious and how my world could change by a random act, an illness or some unforseen event. None of us have a guarantee that trouble and sadness will not visit us. We don’t have an absolute road map for the future, so we have to make each moment count. My tiny temporary paradigm shift was the smallest fraction of what the families of those lost teenagers face, and mine was just that – temporary. So again, I look forward with a thankful heart, reminded of the importance of living in the present and refusing to dwell in melancholy and scary possibilities. But I’m determined to make each moment count with those that I love so much.

Magic

Is there really no magic? I’ve entertained magical thinking all of my life. I didn’t realize I was still doing it until recently. When you’re little, you are taught to believe in magic. You know - Santa, the Easter bunny, tooth fairy and the like. You slowly begin to see that it isn’t quite so, which really kind of sucks. I beat up the little boy who told me there was no Santa when I was seven. I reallllly believed and besides, my mother wouldn’t lie to me! But there I was, sitting on my mom’s lap crying about Santa after my mom came clean and told me that he didn’t exist, at least not in the way I’d been led to believe. For a few years afterwards, I even tried to pretend there still was a Santa at Christmas time, but it wasn’t the same – my eyes had been opened. But you survive. It’s all kid stuff, right? Then there’s church. A whole new set of stuff to believe in that you can’t see. I have this picture of Jesus in a small glass frame that I was given at the age of 4. His eyes follow you wherever you move. I still have it. Being an only child, I spent a lot of alone time with that picture, talking to it, imagining Jesus talking back, joking around with it and taking comfort from it when I was scared or sad. He was my friend. I went to Catholic church and school, and absorbed all of those teachings. It was nice.

As Ive mentioned in prior posts, I spent 10 plus years as a Christian fundamentalist in my early 20’s and 30’s – a realm of magical thinking, most scary in the long run, and the one that may have had the most profound effect on me. I’ve heard every kind of magical thinking in that environment, partook of it myself and did not come away unscathed. When I removed myself from that environment, all hell broke loose as it were. I didn’t know what to believe or trust and eventually hung up on God for quite a while.

Life is different now. I guess my natural cynicism has resurfaced, but in a good way, I think. I’ve come to realize that our built in instincts are okay – even God given. They are put there for a reason to help us make sense of our world. I’ve realized that just believing something, no matter how much you want it to be true, doesn’t make it so. And rather than that truth being disappointing and upsetting, it is instead freeing and comforting. There doesn’t have to be an answer for everything and certainly all truth is not contained in the pages of one small book written by men. Now, for me, the creator of this universe is not some bigoted, giant, narcissistic entity, that demands all and treats us as pitiful, helpless and hapless creatures that can't make a decision for ourselves. Instead, the entity is one I trust and take comfort in, knowing that his design will not fail in the long run, no matter what it is; that I don’t have to know the whole mystery; understanding that all of the energy and life force is there inside of me for me to use for good, and is made up of and part of that creator; positive that his design is not so exclusive as to banish all who don’t lock in to one narrow perspective.

Still, I persist in my search for magic – little glimmers of fairy dust; proof that I am uniquely singled out, for, or to witness the magical whatever it may be. This past week has been a particularly tough one for me. I found myself on Friday attending a party of one, indulging briefly in light servings of self pity. I lost the dream, there is no magic - woe is me......I challenged God to show me the magic! I knew he would. I didn't have anything in particular in mind - just something magical. He did not come through. It’s true that old habits die hard and having been born and bred to expect it, I still wait for it now and then, often disappointed. And yet, that is part of the wonder of waiting for that special dispensation that may never come, or be recognized if it does. In the meantime, I try to live in the present moment which is what I make of it; and in that, there is peace, and a great measure of comfort, knowing that I don’t have to kick any ass for anyone else breaking my bubble, or lament over the disappointment of dreams that did not magically come true. I can choose to see magic in the smiles of my friends, the love of my family, and the little wonders and opportunities that come along happenstance to do good in the life of another soul. I can be grateful for the good things in my life. And, I can just be me working toward my own dreams and enjoying each moment that passes if I dare to do so. Even so, the child inside lingers on. I’ll still wish on stars and look for magic dust in the little corners of my life. But that will be my little secret.

Naomi's Tiara

I have been captivated by…..........wait for it…Facebook, or crackbook as it has come to be called in some circles. At the ripe age of 52, I find myself checking FB on a pretty regular basis. It started out innocently enough. One of my younger colleagues talked me into putting on a Facebook page a little over a year ago. I posted some family photos and a bit of info about myself but that was pretty much it. My colleague was my only FB friend and how much can you share when you spend 8 hours a day together anyway and you are old enough to be her mother? I checked it maybe twice in the first year that I had it. Then suddenly, at the beginning of January, I started getting “friend” notices in my email for FB. Old friends whom I rarely spoke with had joined the FB community and found me. Now I have 66 friends, more than I have ever had in “real” life and it keeps me busy, let me tell ya.

In one way, I feel kind of like a voyeur, peeping into people’s lives and seeing what they’re up to at any given moment in time. They don’t even have to know I’m checking. And yet, these folks are offering it up, as am I. On the other hand, I am finding a sweet and gentle connection to people who may have just as easily dropped from my life forever never to be heard from again otherwise. I’m thankful for these connections and privileged that they choose to call me a FB friend. I’m also thankful for the opportunity to catch up with the children of my old friends, another significant aspect of FB. Some I knew from church years ago, and others are children of friends that I maintain infrequent contact with, and still others that are nieces and nephews that I barely ever talk to. Before FB, I would hear bits and pieces of their comings and goings, accomplishments and growth. Now, many are my FB friends, a dubious distinction for them – a delight for me. I hear what they’re doing, see their pictures, and converse with them on a limited basis – I don’t want to make a middle-age pest of myself.

I thought about this today after reading a particularly beautiful posting by the daughter of one of my dearest old friends. She contacted me to be a FB friend a few weeks ago which really pleased me. I am a little reticent of asking the younger ones to be FB buddies because I have heard they don’t like the dinosaurs invading their FB space, so I was honored to have her choose me. I haven’t spent much time with this beautiful child in the past 15 or so years. Although my friendship with her mom continues, it is remote because of distance, schedules and interests. I was at the hospital the night this child was born and our tight group of friends spent much time together when she was little. Then, our group began to dissolve with family, children and responsibility taking the forefront of our lives and sending us in separate directions.

You never think when you are young that this will happen with your group of buddies. You see yourselves as forever together, growing old, doing the things you have always done together. Maybe that happens sometimes – I don’t know. I doubt it. Life has a way of altering your plans for you. That is why the FB post put on by my dear friend’s daughter really got me. She talks about sometimes wanting to be a little girl again, and about sometimes…being one. We have all felt that way at one time or another. Her words ring true for childhood, friendships, family and dreams. This is Naomi’s post:

Oh, To Be a Little Girl Again!

"It's a beautiful day today...the sky is blue, spring is in the air, and the sun is shining brightly. I love my "grown up" life immensely--the busy flurry I run around in, the feats I accomplish, the endless striving for success, pushing myself to be better, learning new things, and taking care of business. But sometimes I stop in the midst of my whirl of adulthood and wish with all my heart that I could go back to being a little girl, blissfully ignorant of all the cares of the world, caring only that the sky was blue, the flowers plentiful, and the butterflies light and airy. I miss having the freedom to wear a tiara, to change my clothes six times a day, to splash in puddles, and to sing loudly and badly any little song in my heart. I wish I had more time to explore the woods, to gaze at the clouds, to soak in the moonlight, to twirl in the rays of sunshine. At heart, this is what I am. A little girl. And yes, I still sing the song in my heart, twirl in the sun, stare at the moon, and wear tiaras from time to time. I love my life, this balance of childhood and adulthood. I can't wait to have my own little girls---I'll have a legitimate excuse to giggle all the time!! :)' ~Naomi

To all my friends, FB friends, and family: I love you.

STOP

Yesterday was Valentine’s day. You know – that popular holiday typified by large red hearts, ridiculously expensive gifts and cards, chocolate and all the other frills that can go along with it. But yesterday, the big red heart was replaced by a big red STOP sign in my head. Valentine’s day really doesn’t have much to do with today’s post unless you count the entire box of chocolates I ate yesterday, the effects of which I am still reeling from. STOP could have aptly been applied there. This post just took form on Valentine’s day.

I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately. I can’t point to any one thing specifically. There seems to be a hodgepodge of circumstances, thoughts and emotions that are roiling around in my mind, making me feel slightly off center. I’m currently going through menopause so I could probably explain away about 90 percent of the crazy with that if I wanted to. But I don’t want to. Sure, I have rapid cycling hot flashes and mood swings that are probably terrifying to those with weaker constitutions, but that's just too easy. I will not be so easily dismissed. I will not go "gently into that dark night” without having my say and making a little commotion as it were.

Now I happen to be fortunate enough to have married a man whom I suppose is a perfect balance for me. While I struggle to remain positive, having been brought up in a pretty negative environment, he remains positive at almost all times. That really is a good thing because Tim, aka Pollyanna, often reminds me to look at the sunny side of life when he sees me spiraling. For this I am very thankful. For this I am also at times annoyed. Sometimes, his "turn that frown upside down" attitude makes me feel even a wee bit irritable.

I’m very busy. Hear me when I say this. I work full time and take care of a home. I pay the bills with a very tight budget, do the grocery shopping, laundry, cook the meals, plan and schedule, birthdays and holidays, shop for said events, troll for jobs in my field…you get the drift, especially if you are a woman reading this. So yesterday, we’re driving to our granddaughter’s basketball game, me and my sweetheart. As I've mentioned, positive thinking is not a natural trait of mine – I really have to work at it and I backslide sometimes. We’re in the car, it’s snowing, we’re late. My honey is driving slower that I would like and slows down even more when he realizes I am staring at the speedometer (he’s a little passive aggressive that way). I forgot to buy candy to take to my little ones for Valentine’s day so we have to stop at the store for that. There’s no windshield washer fluid in my van and there hasn’t been for days so we can’t see out of the windows. In addition, It’s Saturday and I have a laundry list of things that have to be done this weekend just to get us through the next week. You see where this is going right - the inevitable meltdown? It’s all building up inside of me and I open my mouth and say, “I hate being late, we still need windshield washer fluid, I can’t see out the window, I wish I had bought the candy yesterday, stupid drivers! I don't think I even took a breath. My partner responded by rolling his eyes and saying, “that’s right honey, let it all out at once,” in his most acerbic tone. A tiny revolution occurred in my mind at that moment. STOP STOP STOP! Every stop sign I saw was screaming at me. I had tears in my eyes. I had the fight the compulsion to cry for the rest of the day. My sweety never even suspected the mental insurgency that was happening during that ride to the basketball game.

And there it is. We’re all busy. But every woman I know will tell you that women bear the burden of time – or lack of it. And sometimes, we are the ones to blame. We don’t make time for ourselves. I thought it over today. I’ve been on Facebook lately – don’t ask…I’ll save that for another post. I’ve been seeing all of the beautiful youngsters that I knew from birth, all grown up and doing all of these wonderful things. I’m happy for them, I really am. But I'm jealous too. I’m looking at my endless years of childrearing, work, school and my two degrees that seem to mean nothing and wondering where the time went. I feel a sense of urgency that I can’t really explain. It seems that time is short and flying by so quickly. I have so many things that I want to do but not the time or resources to do them and fear that it will all be over before I know it. I love to sing and I’m pretty good. But I didn't do anything with that. I've always wanted to play the piano. I want to go to New York and Italy. I’m artistic and I like to write. I have an inventory that I won’t bore you with people!! I guess we all do. Suffice it to say that there are facets of myself that I don’t know much about and it may be time now for me to check them out.

I started my blog in January with a little post-holiday free time. I enjoy it – I get to say what I think even though I only have an audience of two. I have asked a few of my kids to read the blog and give me opinions but I think I can actually hear their eyes rolling in their heads. I haven’t received one response from them. I realize that they want me to be their mom. They don’t necessarily want to be burdened with the “me” beyond motherhood and grandparenthood. I understand that. I love being a mom and grandmother. But there is more to me and I’m thinking that now is the time time find out what those other parts of me are all about. Some people do that in the teens and 20’s but I was without direction and in the grips of the drug culture in my teens and a mother at the age of 20. Maybe now is my time. I wrote this today when I should be getting household chores done before a meeting that I am attending this afternoon. But the chores will have to wait. I needed to say this. STOP!

I am making a stop sign to remind myself that there is more to life than just our responsibilities. I am reminding myself to delegate more and work a little less. To stop and smell the roses sometimes. To spend a little time getting to know me. When I'm feeling crazy and overwhelmed, it will give me permission to just stop taking care of everyone and everything else and take some time for myself. That other stuff will be there when I'm done.

American Dream

I grew up in a tough neighborhood on the east side of Detroit. We moved there from another Detroit neighborhood in 1960 when I was 4 years old, a result of my parents search for a nicer home and better environment. At the time, the new neighborhood was a lower middle class assortment of Italian and Polish immigrants – mostly Catholic, peppered with a few black families and those like mine; a mixture of a Scottish Irish immigrant mother and a father from the South. It was a fun and interesting amalgamation of ethnicity and cultural traditions that, at the same time, challenged and enveloped the “American dream.” Let me add, the American dream is and remains in a constant state of transition and redefinition.

In a few short years the neighborhood began a tumultuous freefall that started with the entrance of the typical elements of urban sprawl; the drug culture, which introduced crime, which brought in white flight, lower property values and ultimately, the lethal state of urban decay that resulted in whole neighborhoods of empty fields dotted with abandoned and burnt out houses used for drug deals and worse. By the time I was a young teenager the American dream had become a nightmare for those unfortunate enough to call the area home.

I went to Catholic school. St. Ambrose, the church I was baptized in, was a mere two blocks from my home. It lay on the border between Detroit and Grosse Point Park, off of Alter Rd. The elementary school, new at the time, was on the Detroit side of Alter Rd. and the high school was on the Grosse Point side. That Alter Road dividing line literally separated heaven (Grosse Point) and hell (Detroit). I know….real dramatic. But ask anyone who lived on either side and they’ll tell you. The difference in two blocks is as day and night.

School was an assorted mixture of Detroit and Grosse Point kids. It wasn’t a problem unless you considered the way the GP kids dressed, or at least that was the view of my cohorts and I. We had ambiguous opinions on the GP kids and looked down on them amongst ourselves. I'm sure they did the same. By the time we hit 6th or 7th grade, we were pretty much separated into groups by zip code. I don’t know if we understood that. It was never really put into words. It wasn't a bitter rivalry or anything like that. In fact, in school, we all got along okay. We could work on projects with them and make fun of teachers with them. It was outside of school on the grounds and in our groups that the we were separate. We were worlds apart and somehow we knew it although if you had asked us, we would have just said they were snobs, dressed weird and were spoiled rich kids. It was that simple. I guess I don’t really know what they said about us. In fact, I never really thought about it. But to this day, I can spot a Grosse Pointer at 100 yards.

My posse and I came from dysfunctional families to say the least. Each of the five of us had a story, with family issues, reckless conduct, close calls and tragedies. One of us did not survive. The rest have struggled, made gains, had losses, and have lost touch. In recent years, I thought perhaps this is the legacy of the urban landscape but I have come to realize how shortsighted that frame of thought is. To be sure, I have run into GP alum from St. Ambrose who have done exceedingly well, attending elite colleges and landing in well heeled professions. They’ve continued on in the traditions of their families. With time, I’ve overcome my blind prejudice and come to see those as good things, not something to be minimized. I've found that dysfunction knows no class or gender and visits and perpetrates its misery on the haves and have nots alike if conditions are right. But likewise, neither do hopes and dreams belong to one specific group. We all want our children to do better than we did and we hope we can provide that opportunity for them. Those hopes and dreams belong to everyone regardless of zip code. While its true that paucity often times lends itself to sad results down the line, that is not always the case. There are success stories; those who defy the odds and overcome their harsh environment, either through supportive family and friends, sheer determination of will, or, maybe a little of both.

I’m thankful that I survived my youth. It was not an easy time, and there was precious little guidance from anywhere. But I made it. I have raised two children of my own through some pretty hard times but they are both fine upstanding people. And I hope for them, the things that all parents who love their children hope.

You've Come a Long Way Baby!

I’ve been at my current job for a long time – 20 years and 6 months to be exact. Not because I loooove the job. Not because I'm so dedicated. Certainly not because I haven’t tried to get a position in my field…well, you get the drift. Before my current job, I worked in a large claims office of about 70 employees. I was young, and pretty much at bottom of the food chain in the office but on one level, and one level only, the playing field was even. And that was the break room, or as I like to think of it, the great equalizer. Yep, we were all equal in the breakroom, from the branch manager to the front desk clerk, male and female, young and old.

The break room had a kitchen with a refrigerator, sink, cupboards and microwave. There were tables and chairs. You could use the refrigerator to store your food and beverages during the week, but everything that was not removed by Friday afternoon, was thrown away at the end of the day no matter whom it belonged to. If you made a mess preparing your food, you cleaned it up. You wiped the table when you were done at lunch or break time. There were always enough people around to hold you accountable. But the chief and most fundamental rule of the break room revolved around the coffee pot. It was simple. Whoever took the last cup of coffee from either the regular or decaf pot, made the next pot, thus ensuring there was always coffee available. It did not matter who you were. Those were the rules. Many are the time I saw the branch manager of the whole office making a pot of coffee. It was something you could count on like death and taxes.

So, when I came to my new job at the small insurance agency, I wasn’t fooled. I knew it was still a man’s world and I knew I was still a peon. I expected the man would be honing his macho by bossing me around ensuring his superiority over my female weakness. But nothing prepared me for my first introduction to my new job. My boss, while showing me around the office, walked me over to the coffee pot and said, verbatim: This is the coffee pot and it's your job to keep it full. I laughed - surely he was joking. With a big grin I said, ‘you’re kidding right/” He looked me straight in the eye and confirmed that he was not. The earth moved, but not in a good way. I was reeling and had trouble focusing the rest of the day. It was my first inkling of my new and even lower status.

Keep in mind, I, like most women, especially 20 years ago, had no illusions about what I was up against in this "man's world." At the time, I was a single mother with an ex who did not pay child support - ever. I had a high-school education and about 30 college credits so I knew the score. Yet still, the coffee pot directive came as a shock. Hadn't we advanced in this 20th century? Was not our generation of women the vanguard of feminism, the movement for equal rights, equal pay and dignity for women. Did not our female forbears in this very century garner for us the right to vote? I was apalled - and what's worse...I was stuck. I had already left my other job and didn't have much experience as it was. I was stuck with this dictator who viewed me as the "dumb broad" at the office. Remember the movie, "9 to 5," with Dolly Parton? That song became my theme song in my head for many years, through the $7 per hour pay checks, 10 cent raises, verbal snubs, and endless pots of coffee.

Fast forward 20 years: My kids are grown and gone. I am remarried and have earned a bachelor's and a master's degree. I'm still working at the same job. I won't go into my arduous and continual attempts to procure other employment - that's for another day. I'm not sure what happend. Perhaps I'm being punished by the God that I question so rabidly. Maybe I'm learning a lesson that I didn't quite get in a past life. Maybe my resume sucks...the point is - it's not for lack of trying. But I have learned a few things along the way and I believe my boss, the coffee tyrant, has as well.

My title is "office manager." Pretty much, I do the same things as everyone else with a few small added responsibilities. In years past, one of the other workers who started earlier than me and was lower on the office food chain, always made the coffee. When she left, I noticed my boss actually making coffee now and then. By that time, he wouldn't dream of asking me to do it for fear of my feminist wrath. But one morning, in a fit of magnanimous benevolence, I offered to make the coffee. That was about 4 years ago. I have been making it ever since. If for some reason I don't make it, the coffee tyrant tells one of the other ladies to do it. Don't get me wrong about the coffee tyrant. He is a good man. He's a hard worker and has a kind heart. But in his own words, he is a male chauvinist.

I am as close as it is possible to get to the top of the food chain in this now, 4 peson office and have been for years. I can't go any further - I've hit the ceiling as it were...glass, um plastic - I don't know. I didn't have to claw my way to the "top" either - I've just been here the longest. I've had to fight for every vacation day, most pay raises and priviledges that we have obtained. I have made myself a major thorn in the coffee tyrants side many times for the betterment of myself and the others and for that, I have no regret.

I've come to grips with the coffee debacle. Don't misunderstand - I know making coffee was never really the issue. It was just symbolic of all of the attitudes and perceptions that make up the gender gap and strain relations between all involved. I recently read the statement, "Because we live in a world of dualities, we often need to understand the shadow before we can appreciate the light," (Daily Om). While I still cringe at the menial tasks I perform such as washing the dishes in the office kitchen every third week and plunging the sink while sporting my currently worthless master's degree, I am able to overlook the coffee war. Saying I'm disheartened over my inability to get a position in my field is a broad understatement. I tear up every time I write out my monthly payment to Uncle Sam for the school loans. But I continue to search for the place I want to be. In the meantime, me and the coffee tyrant have come to a mutual respect and understanding now. Plus, we've grown up a bit.

For my part, I've realized the gender gap will not be bridged over a pot of coffee. I make coffee now as a gesture of kindness and willingness to serve my fellow man/coffee tyrant. I remain militant in the face of injustice but I choose my battles so much more carefully. And as for the coffee tyrant, I have seen cracks in the armor of his bravado. He is a bit more compassionate and respectful to women these days. I can't take all the credit for that - he is the father of two strong young women, but I like to believe I had something to do with his enlightenment. It helps to think so.

Birthday Month

It's January, or as we call it in our house, birthday month. January can be a downer for many reasons; it's the month immediately following Christmas, so there is the extreme low following the extreme high of the holiday season. For some, there are the bills to pay following holiday excess. It's cold and snowy and gets dark early and then there is that long dreary stretch before the next holiday. In our family, we have the added stress of "birthday month." Our large and blossoming family has no shortage of birthdays anyway, but in January, there are eight. Starting with New Years day and going through to the end of the month we have celebrations, cards and gifts to buy and family get togethers. It seems a little stressful so soon after the major consumer free for all.

We were at a birthday party this past Saturday for our oldest grandson when the idea for this post took form. The party was held at a place that offers games of all kinds for kids and adults. It is a large venue with two floors so there are kids running all over the place and parents moving at warp speed trying to keep an eye on them. All the cousins were there as well as an assortment of the birthday boy's school friends, aunts, uncles and grandparents. In addition to the game rooms, there was the party room where pizza and salads are served in between playing and birthday cake. It was really a lot of fun - at least for me. My daughter was a little stressed.

I wandered among the game stations, stopping to watch each grandchild display his or her skill at a particular game while moms and dads stood close by offering encouragement and game tips. It was then that I realized that January birthday month in our family is the next big holiday - a wonderful and evolving celebration of life that lasts all month. I started to think about the special gift that is each family member - no matter what month the birthday.

I was an only child. My mother was an immigrant from Scotland so all of her family was there. My dad was from Tennessee and was much older than my mother. His mother died the year I was born and he never went back to see his family and rarely kept in touch. So, there was no extended family in my life. I envied the kids with brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, and holidays filled with the flurry of family get togethers.

My life now is a direct parallel to those years. My husband Tim and I have six children between us - two girls and four boys, all grown. We share eight grandchildren and have a new one on the way. In fact, we still have two that are not yet married so I'm sure there may be more to follow. I've been solitary in my past and surrounded with family in my present and I will take sourrounded with family every time. I see my family like a diamond, each person a different facet of the diamond, all perfect cuts that make the diamond almost perfect. I say almost because there are very few perfect diamonds. Most have small inclusions. Families are the same - they're not perfect but they're yours. This is an ode to my family - a list of the beautiful facets of my life that were born in January. There are more in March, April, June, August and October.

January 1st: Tyler is our oldest grandson. He made his appearance on January 1st, 1998 and our world has never been the same. I was 41 at the time and not convinced that I was old enough to be a grandma. I considered making him call me Aunt Kathy - that is until I saw him. I knew the moment I looked at him that ours would be a relationship that would span time and space. He and his mom, my daughter, lived with us for the first 3 years of his life. My husband and I spent a lot of time with him while his mommy worked and went to school so, for a brief time, he was almost like our baby. He is nearly as tall as me now and I constantly marvel as he develops, both physically and emotionally. He is and always will be a great way to start out the new year.

January 9th: Ryan is our youngest grandson and is four years old. He's beautiful with huge round eyes and a cherubic face. There has never been a more determined lad. Ryan's older brother Nathan has been riding dirt bikes with his dad and uncles for the past few years and this past summer, Ryan wanted to ride as well. But his dad told him he couldn't ride until he mastered riding a 2-wheel bike. Ryan has a tiny 2-wheeler that had training wheels on it. He looked at his bike, looked at his dad and said, "take the training wheels off dad." His dad took the training wheels off and to his parents amazement, that 3-year old boy got on the bike and rode down the street. When he came back he told his dad he was ready to ride the dirt bike! That's our Ryan.

January 12th: Tim is my husband and best friend. We began dating 21 years ago and have been married for 16. Not only is he supportive of my goals, hopes and dreams, but he stepped in as a father to my two children at a very important time and they love him very much. He is patient, kind and humble and always puts the feelings and needs of others first. He is a true partner and my better half. And he's cute! That's my Timmy.

January 17th: Nathan is our third grandson and Ryan's big brother. He turned 7 on the 17th. He is one of the sweetest and most caring little boys I have ever met. He is a very tenderhearted little boy. He watches out for his little brother and seem to try very hard to please his mom and dad. He's another determined little guy. The first time he walked, he was about 9 months old. He had been sitting in the middle of the room with nothing to hold on to. His mom watched him get to his feet by himself and then he took his first steps. He approaches everything with that same vigor.

January 25th: Scott is our new son-in-law. He and my daughter Erin married on October 25th of this past year and now are expecting a baby. Erin held out for her prince and he certainly fits the bill. He fit into our family immediately and he's everything I have prayed for for my daughter and then some. He reminds me of Tim in some ways, easy going, always happy to help, kind and thoughtful. He treats my daughter like a princess. He's a keeper.

January 27th: Matthew and Darrel, my husband's oldest and are identical twins. Where do I start with these guys? Tall, handsome, funny and wonderful men and fathers. Matt is the oldest, being three minutes older than his twin, Darrel. He is a body builder, technical writer, husband and dad. Everything he does, he does with a passion and singlemindedness that is amazing. Darrel, while appearing the more laid back of the two, actually isn't. He's a bit of a worry wart but again, one of the most wonderful men I know. He is a business owner and entrepreneur. He has a hilarious sense of humor and loves to pull phone pranks on everyone in the family. He has gotten me a few times. We don't tell him how funny he is because we don't want it to go to his head. He is a daddy extraordinaire - an exceptional father and a hard worker. I love these boys/men.

January 29th: Colin is our second grandson. He will be 8 years old on the 29th. Since he was 3 years old I have been convinced that he will be something...I don't know, maybe a doctor or a rocket scientist. He's a different little duck and maches to the beat of his own drum. While teacher say he daydreams a bit at school, I have seen that boy focus on things he is interested in with an intensity that would put a Nasa scientist to shame. One time when we were babysitting, he said to me, "Grandma, do you want to smell my carbon dioxide?" He had his hands cupped together. Okay...after I smelled it, he wanted to smell mine. He had been learning about it in school. He thinks about the things he is learning. I'm telling you, he may be famous some day! Watch out for Colin.

These are just some of the facets in my beautiful family diamond. Thank goodness for those birthdays that cause us to come together and celebrate the lives of those who bring form, essence and meaning to our families and our lives. No complaints from me.

Disillusion/Evolution

Disillusion and evolution; According to Merriam-Webster, disillusion is "the condition of being disenchanted." Evolution is "a process of continuous change, from a lower, simpler, or worse, to a higher, more complex or better state." The words have two separate meanings and yet, I’m finding there is a fine line between them that not only separates them, but makes them kissing cousins as well. Let me explain.

I spent ten years of my life between my early 20’s and early 30’s in the grips of fundamental Christianity, or, in the words of one of my old professors," the darkest regions of fundamentalism." Then, I spent another ten years, at least, trying to deprogram myself from it. Yep, this is one of my nine lives – I’m thinking somewhere around life number 4.

I got "saved" around the age of 22 years old. As I've mentioned in prior posts, I was brought up Catholic and had rebel tendencies so, if you know anything about fundamental Christianity you have to wonder how I lasted 10 years - an oil and water kind of thing.

Anyway, at the time, I was mom to two very small children and in a marriage that was failing. From a small home bible study I was introduced to salvation with huge helpings of the bible, which of course, I, being Catholic, had never really read. What's more, I learned that the bible is to be taken literally - all of it. What? Adam and Eve? Like for real?  I'd never really thought about it. Jesus coming back on a white horse? The rapture? I'd never even heard of those things. It was overwhelming and at first I rejected these notions, but something - a need to bond with my new peers or a need to just find something to believe in took over. Well...that and my best friend was involved and I had to keep an eye on her. Don’t get me wrong, the people were nice and all, and I still keep in touch with a few of them. We were all very young and looking for something - the blind leading the blind so to speak.

Interestingly enough, all of this newfound knowledge had me quite angry at the Catholic Church and I was pretty vocal about it. I felt they had deceived me and kept the truth of the bible from me. They were keeping me back from all of God's blessings, like healing, prosperity, authority over the devil, raising the dead, casting out demons, and my rightful place in the kingdom of God. I mean, how many people went to hell that I could have warned! How many that I loved were in danger of eternal damnation? Well, I warned my mother and let's just say that went over like a lead balloon and she informed me, “you were born a Catholic and you’ll die a Catholic!” Case closed.

The church I was attending was run by three young pastors. They were very young with nothing more than high school educations. They had no professional training, but were passionate, extremely zealous, and lots of fun. It was a small non-denominational church filled with people and families my age. What could be better?

The church was what is known as "spirit filled." The laying on of hands for healing of all sorts, speaking in tongues, prophesy and words of knowledge were regular and expected occurrences. The music was contemporary worship music with a full band of which I was a part. I had a great time there in the beginning. I discovered a talent for singing that I developed over time and I made a lot of good friends. But something else happened. I stopped asking questions and I began to distrust my own instincts. I lost myself.

To make matters worse, the eutopian environment began to erode. Over time, the unchurch became an establishment of its own creation. Dogma was instituted only it was of their own making with bits and pieces culled from other ministries. I got divorced during that time and although they were more forgiving than the Catholic church, attitudes of some people changed. It was weird.

So, here's the thing: Have you ever thought about the concept of hell? A place where justice is meted out by a supreme being (God). The residents of hell, according to the Christian religion, burn and suffer torment for eternity for a variety of reasons, large, small and in between.  You're looking at anything from murder to your garden variety sins, like coveting your neighbors, wife, husband or barbecue grill;  to lying, cheating, gossiping, etc. But the even bigger  problem is if a person does not accept Jesus as their personal savior.  Ya, those people are on the fast track to the "lake of fire that burns forever," and it doesn't matter how good they are - they're toast.  Good Buddhists?  Bye bye.  Same for Hindus, atheists, Krishnas and  pretty much anyone who is not a born again Christian.  So, consider this: This salvation theory excludes every religion that does not recognize Jesus Christ as the son of God, and, if your a fundamentalist Christian, even some that do. So, the God that created the entire vast universe, comes up with a plan to save mankind that is so narrow, that it is a sure thing that hell will be packed. One way - turn or burn baby. The concept sounds all too human to me - the brainchild of man. Not the creator of the universe. That makes Him/Her kind of petty, no?

That is just one of many beliefs and teaching that began to eat away at my core. And God, there were so many!  Like their belief that it was God's will to heal all the time. When people died from illness as they inevitably did, we were give  assorted reasons for the disappointing outcome.  Reasons such as lack of faith and things  like that - all pointing the finger of guilt back to you / to us.   So, you were always guilty.  Always failing.  A dull, constant form of spiritual abuse that came from our leaders.  For me, God became an insatiable black hole that could never be satisfied. I started to resent him - disillusion. The questions in my head became so insistent, I started saying them out loud.  Take it from me - if you want some excitement, just try that in a fundamental church. I eventually left the church with my children.

It took quite a while to get over that 10 year experience - at least 10 more years. But I found myself again and I found God, the universe, the supreme being - that we are all, and I mean everyone, connected with - evolution.

I think that God / the universe, has the capacity to reach us wherever we are and that there are many paths to God. I don't know what his name is and I don't think it matters.. I think God is for everyone in whatever way we can find him.  And that's okay.  What's not okay is the insanity of to putting God/ the universe in a little box to claim it for yourself or your little group alone.  

Heritage

My mother was from Scotland. You might think that would make me part Scottish, but you'd be wrong...according to my mother. Her parents were from Ireland and so, we are Irish. Scotland was just the place where they lived. It's a pretty big deal in my family. Among my cousins, all from Scotland, there is great pride and loyalty in our Irish heritage. Make that the Irish Catholic heritage. I am not excluding myself - I also am very proud and that feeling grows as I age. I picture roots that grow stronger and deeper below the surface of my life as time passes.

I have always been a rebel from as far back as I can remember. It's as natural to me as breathing; something I was born with. I don't know exactly where that comes from. My mother was kind of the black sheep of her family. Maybe it came from her. She was the first and only divorcee in her Irish Catholic family in her generation, prompting her to leave Scotland and immigrate, first to Canada and then to the United States/Detroit. It was in Detroit that she met my dad, the second of three husbands.

The persecution of Catholics was one of the main drivers behind the "troubles" that have plagued Ireland and to a significant extent, the Irish in Scotland, and fueled the fury and fighting that has carried on for decades. In my family, discrimination came in the form of jobs. On job applications, they were required to identify their religious affiliation which up until the last decade or so, could cost them the job if they were Catholic. They were also identified by their names. For example, Meehan was known as a Catholic name. One of my cousins used his mother's maiden name one year to get a job because the name was considered a protestant name. Of course, that didn't go over well with the family as you can imagine. So vitriole and rebellion linger beneath the surface for the Irish in Scotland and in my family. Maybe it came from there.

I was raised in the Catholic church and went to Catholic school. I have fond memories of my early years in the church. My mother took me when I was small and made me go by myself when I got older. I had to bring home a church paper every Sunday as evidence that I attended mass. Since she was divorced, she was denied sacraments so she didn't want to go but felt it was important for me to be there. You don't need me to tell you that a teenager will take note of that kind of behavior and rebel. In Scotland, a popular term of endearment was, :Oh ya cheeky wee bitch." I heard that often as a child, but it was not a bad thing. In fact, it was generally said tongue in cheek and with a smile. But one day, I called my mom a cheeky wee bitch intending that same playful spirit. Apparently, being born in the US diluted my Irish/Scott quotient because my mom walloped me a good one. So, at an early age I learned two things; First - what is ok for mom to say is not necessarily ok for me to say, and second; what is ok for mom NOT to do is not ok for me NOT to do (church). Maybe it came from these experiences.

But here's what I think: I think a bit was inherited from my mother who was a rebel in her own right; A little from my father who was kind of eccentric, a free thinker and an unsuccessful entepreneur; and the rest from my own personality, or the stars I was born under, or my instincts and observations while growing up, or all of the above, or whatever. That's my theory - it is who I am, a part of me, and I've used it for good and maybe just a wee bit of evil too. But these days, there is a sense of maturity to my rebellion. Perhaps those rebel instincts have evolved into confidence in who I am and what I believe, or what I don't believe. In any event, I've come to trust those instincts.