This. So much this.
Thank you, Dver!
In a recent post called “An Outsider’s View of Godspousery,” the author quotes a particular godspouse talking about their life with their deity, and remarks – quite positively – “What strikes me here is the sense of domesticity.” I too have noticed this in many writings by godspouses – their relationships seem to echo human marriages in many everyday sorts of ways, as if they simply had an invisible, but human, wife or husband. Someone to have their morning coffee with, to talk to about their day, to sleep with at night. Now, while that can sometimes be a warning sign (a god is a god, after all, and it seems some people are quick to forget this, or may be engaging in a bit of wishful thinking to satisfy their loneliness), it is not necessarily a “wrong” way to go about things, nor is the point…
View original post 826 more words
Most people do not understand that their true power lies in releasing resistance, which is the only obstacle to their true power!
We want you to breathe rather than try, to relax rather than offer effort, to smile rather than struggle, to be rather than do.
For your true power is experienced only from inside the Vortex……
~ Abraham Hicks
This. So much this.
She writes her thoughts on depression so much more succinctly than I ever could.
For Robin Williams.
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not…
View original post 1,399 more words
I went with my kid, K, and V, to a baseball game today.
It was enjoyable insofar that I discovered that it was a lot closer to where I’m living now than I had thought it would be.
(I might just go to a game on my own, as I prefer to go to a live baseball game rather than to watch one on TV any day, but we’ll see.)
A few things happened at the game that seemed to signal that His presence, too, much to K’s delight, especially in that the opposing team’s second catcher was a young man of above-average height and build for a baseball player (at 6’3 and 230 lbs) — with long bright red hair.
What further inspired the thought was in that before the game began, this catcher – #33 – walked past us, and looked right at us for a good 20 seconds. Something V had been saying seemed to catch his attention briefly, and he stopped walking, looked at V and frowned, but then he smiled at K and I, before walking away.
(We didn’t see him again, until the end of the game, which struck me as odd, too. I would’ve liked to have seen him play.)
The other thing, was feeling the feels during mundane things, such as during the singing of the national anthem, and then again, during the seven-inning stretch.
It must have been because we sang, but K kept looking over at me, asking if I could feel that He was about.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Statement from Dr. Maya Angelou’s Family:
Dr. Maya Angelou passed quietly in her home before 8:00 a.m. EST. Her family is extremely grateful that her ascension was not belabored by a loss of acuity or comprehension. She lived a life as a teacher, activist, artist and human being. She was a warrior for equality, tolerance and peace. The family is extremely appreciative of the time we had with her and we know that she is looking down upon us with love.
I awoke this morning to the sad news via Tweets and various messages on my newsfeed that Maya Angelou had died.
Within moments of reading the above words, I found myself unable to articulate exactly why I feel such a sense of loss.
Meanwhile, my friend, Sarah Sloane, upon hearing the news, put her feelings succinctly, thus:
“No…no. Losing Maya Angelou feels like losing my loving, empowering aunt, the one who told me that my soul had wings.”
Yes, that, Sarah, I agree with you.
Maya Angelou was exactly that.
She was an amazing writer, teacher, and activist certainly, but she was so much more than that to me.
Her words inspired me – in the truest sense of the word ‘inspired’ – and her poetry and essays carried me through some of the darkest hours while I was growing up.
I remember when my father had collected a huge cardboard box full of paperbacks and college textbooks that had been left behind in the dormitories during the summer remodel of Wellesley College in 1984. (The contractor company that he’d worked for assumed that the crew would just throw away any and all contents of the dorm rooms that were slated for remodeling, but my father has always had difficulty throwing away books of any kind.)
So that’s how I ended up with a dog-eared copy of her autobiography, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings and her poetry collections, Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ‘fore I Diie.., and Still I Rise.
I don’t know if that’s exactly what my father would have intended, but I spent that summer, sitting under the back porch, readingreadingreading about the evocative power of love, grief, pain, and spiritual truth that also touched upon race, gender, and the intricacy of human relationships.
And so began my lifelong love of her poetry, her writing, and her keen, unflinching eye that always focused on the humanity in history. And whether her unflinching eye focused on the good or the bad of humanity, in the end, it seemed to me that the gist of her words always concerned the importance of moving forward, moving upward, toward the exposure of truth, and the revelation of love.
And I needed that in that difficult summer of 1984, when I was 13, and struggling mightily with myself.
I count many of her poems as inspiring, but here are three that I find especially so:
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Laughter brave
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body’s haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.
Preacher, Don’t Send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.
I’ve known those rats
I’ve seen them kill
and grits I’ve had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.
Preacher, please don’t
streets of gold
and milk for free.
I stopped all milk
at four years old
and once I’m dead
I won’t need gold.
I’d call a place
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.
Rest in peace, dear Maya Angelou.
It is with tears in my eyes that I thank you. and wish you safe journey.
May all promises be kept.
Here’s a quote from Margaret Atwood:
“Why do men feel threatened by women?” I asked a male friend of mine. (I love that wonderful rhetorical device, “a male friend of mine.” It’s often used by female journalists when they want to say something particularly bitchy but don’t want to be held responsible for it themselves. It also lets people know that you do have male friends, that you aren’t one of those fire-breathing mythical monsters, The Radical Feminists, who walk around with little pairs of scissors and kick men in the shins if they open doors for you. “A male friend of mine” also gives—let us admit it—a certain weight to the opinions expressed.) So this male friend of mine, who does by the way exist, conveniently entered into the following dialogue. “I mean,” I said, “men are bigger, most of the time, they can run faster, strangle better, and they have on the average a lot more money and power.” “They’re afraid women will laugh at them,” he said. “Undercut their world view.” Then I asked some women students in a quickie poetry seminar I was giving, “Why do women feel threatened by men?” “They’re afraid of being killed,” they said.
Here are some convenient bullet points:
– Today is Day 8 of my being on medications.
The upside is that I am sleeping better, and therefore, find myself better able to have one thought at a time in an orderly fashion rather than several random cranky ones all at once, it seems. The downside is this: an initial overall effect of sluggishness is often seen when beginning a daily regimen of (this medication), so I’m not enjoying that.
So I’m tired, but I am feeling calmer than usual. I suppose that one must take the good with the bad.
– Despite being tired, I was somewhat productive today. I weeded the front garden. I pruned and deadheaded the main rose-bush, and I realized that my re-planted miniature roses from Valentine’s Day are actually going to live: there are two blooms on the plant.
I also re-potted the Salvia, and the Roma tomato and basil are doing well in the patio.
– I also walked the dog, did some housecleaning, did some laundry, and I paid bills.
– I’ve been writing letters lately.
I wrote a letter to my sweetest friend that was… very well-received.
This was the third time in a row.
Perhaps this might become a Thing.
-I did not go to the Con this weekend as I had expected to. I was very disappointed at first, but I was able to get around it. One particular friend who was there checked in with me several times over the weekend, making sure that I didn’t feel forgotten.
Also, other friends checked in on me several times over the last few days. I am thankful for those folks. They are good friends.
– I’ve started drawing again.
I realized this weekend that I have had a DeviantArt account for two years now
….and I have yet to submit any artwork to it.
Several of my DA friends have been nudging me (patiently, but firmly) to submit something, anything…
And so I have sharpened my pencils, and I have begun…again.
( It feels good to stretch my fingers that way. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing it.)
I don’t know how to say this succinctly, but I do want to end this post with a particular piece of news that is very meaningful to me.
I don’t think that it would serve much purpose to give much background on it, except to say that I asked for something that I was certain was an impossible request.
But evidently, it was not.
I received an apology from someone that was two years and ten months in coming to me.
Following that, specific circumstances are falling together, and there is definitely something brewing to coincide with the three year anniversary of a particularly powerful occurrence in my life.
I tell you, so much in my life comes in threes.
Ah, what a week it has been.
So. I was negotiating another avoidance maneuver, er…reading one of my kid’s comic books, and I came across this particular piece of brickwork from a dodgy character named Randall:
“Hey, while I was in the trash I had some time to think, and I think that I learnt something! Like — a moral? I think that I was wrong to try to find cheats ALL the time. Maybe the best things are those that take the most work, you know? Maybe how you get somewhere can be at least as important as where you’re going.”
Just call me Randall today.