Joni Martin, Writer & Dreamer

New Blog!!

2013-01-14T07:42:00.003-08:00

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. (C. S. Lewis)

Hatch*, like TED, is about ideas worth spreading. It is about asking the big questions, it is about finding the answers. Hatch* is about growth and learning and seeking. Hatch* is about shrugging off the shell of what's holding us back and using our wings.

It was birthed from a love of learning, and from a desire to love, even those who have a different colored shell than us. Although we may not agree with each other on every topic, we're interested in more than agreement - we're interested in perspectives.

When I started this journey, I wanted, simply, to connect with God and other people. What I discovered was that I most love hearing the stories. The stories are what ignite passion, move to tears. As I hear more stories, I see more lives: connected to each other, part of something bigger. I see tribes.

A few months ago, I stood barefoot in the Red River. Feeling the (ice cold!) water rush over my feet, around my legs; feeling the river's strength, I felt connected to something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. I was considering my next steps in a journey that had led me far from my spiritual home, I was feeling a bit lost, and I was thinking about God.

For the past 3 years, I had been writing about religion. I had lived the 6 major religions practiced in the United States; I had visited houses of worship and prayed alongside Muslim sisters in living rooms. I had shared Sabbath at the table of Jews, and had filled open Mormon Missionary hands with apples from my tree and love from my heart.

Although my journey was wonderful, it was time for a change. I was ready for traveling companions for a stretch. In the Red River that day, amidst my shivers and slips on mossy rocks, I found part of God. In the faces of the children swimming, splashing, climbing trees and sitting in sand, I found part of God.

More and more, I'm finding God in the most unlikely places... outside places of worship: in nature, in love, in relationship and in community. Hatch* is about sharing our collective stories and questions, and learning from each other. We hope you'll join us and share your story with us, too. Your story needs to be heard. We must be hatched or go bad. I asked my brother, a conservative Christian along on this journey. I also asked some friends of varied religious flavors: one who lives on a commune in Illinois, one who is a Mormon mother of 6, one who worships a God called Allah...others who can lend insight, yes, but mostly others who have questions like me.

It is my hope that through our journey, our readers will identify and create with us. It is our hope that we will together spread our wings and fly! Please follow our blog at www.hatchwords.wordpress.com

ode to my mother

2012-12-17T15:17:00.000-08:00

My mother was not what I would call a sympathetic mother. She was not the sort to coddle and cuddle her children. She was a firm believer in the stance “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” And consequently, she gave us some rules for the world and set us free to explore on our own with an instruction to not scream and holler unless we were bleeding or dying. She relied heavily on the fear technique.
The instructions were simple:

Every man you encounter is dangerous. He will probably abduct you from a gas station or other location, and you will disappear forever. He will do horrible nameless things to you. He will kill you. You will never see us again. So you had better beware of men. She told us stories about her friend from high school who went to a gas station and was kidnapped and disappeared from the face of the earth never to be seen or heard from again. Her bones were later found on the edge of the town. There’s no telling what that man who abducted her did to her, but he probably barbecued her and served her to the sheriff. It happens. It happens ALL. THE. TIME. People in panel vans only drive them so that they can kidnap innocent children. Stay far away from them. It is for this reason, I have had an irrational fear of vans and strange men my entire life. When I was a child, I didn’t dream about monsters and creatures under my bed, I dreamt about strange men, coming through my window to kidnap me and take me to a far away place. I can tell you I never, EVER talked to a strange man as a child. Once, a man approached us to ask if we had seen his dog, and I ordered my brothers to run for the hills, and I followed. We ran from that man like he was Adolf Hiltler surrounded by SS Guards with submachine guns. Talking to men meant you would end up dead. And it wouldn’t be a pleasant death.
Rule Number 2 was never climb up radio/electric towers. You know those giant towers made of metal about 3 stories high? We were never to come anywhere close to them. These towers were dangerous for two reasons: (1.) If you climbed them, you were placing yourself at risk of being hit by a bolt of lightning from anywhere in a 40 mile radius. If there was a bolt of lightning to be had, it would hit you if you were climbing one of those towers. (2.) Those towers were notoriously unstable and might send bolts of electricity down their metal legs and through your body. You would not be able to let go until you were dead. This happened to one of my mom’s brother’s friends, tragically both struck by lightning AND electrocuted by the tower at the same time. He was stuck like a magnet to the tower for a few moments, then he was blown 40 feet to the field below. He was dead. And if you climbed a tower, you would end up dead too. I never climbed a tower, in fact, just to be safe, I avoided the general vicinity of any towers I saw. And telephone poles. I figured they were almost as high and there was no reason to place myself in undue danger.
Rule three was never go through storm sewer pipes or down manholes, or anywhere near street gutters. There were these huge pipes that a child could stand up straight in, that connected the creek on one side of the street to the creek on the other side of the street. These tunnels went underground and could go for miles underground, connecting storm sewers and street water runoff creeks for an entire neighborhood. My mother told us that we should not go near those, and we definitely shouldn’t go in them. She knew some boys once who went in them and a flashflood filled them up in a split second and they died. If we went in them, even on a sunny day, there was always the risk that a flash flood would ensue and we would be drowned instantly. Oddly, we were allowed to play in the runoff creek, probably because it did not enclose us in a spherical tube, and we would not die.

Other than those three rules, we were allowed to run free as long as we came home for dinner. My brothers and I lived in a house that backed up to about 200 acres of undeveloped land owned by the city. This was a playground of massive proportions and we took advantage of it, spending our days exploring, playing, hiding, building and running away from evil men. My mom originally tried to yell when it was time for us to come home, but we never heard her. So she decided to do the next thing: buy a whistle. When it was time for us to come home, she blew the whistle and whatever we were doing, we took off in the direction of home. Our dog was usually the first to hear the whistle. Her ears perked up, she turned in the direction of home, and she ran pell-mell for the house. We followed.

The mother from my childhood was not exactly the kind of mother who was prone to messing around. She strongly believed in spanking (as did my father) and she also strongly believed in the idea that children, if they were not bleeding or dying, did NOT need to scream. I remember when I was about 6, I couldn't swim and we were at my grandparent’s lake house. I ran to the end of the dock and jumped off into the lake. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble and I was doggie paddling as fast as I could to get back to the shore, but then I panicked and started going under water. My mom didn't panic, she calmly walked to the end of the dock, stripping as she went, executed a perfect dive, reached me in seconds and pulled me to safety.

In a crisis, my mom was the one to have around. She never lost her head… until AFTER the fact. I got a stern talking to about how I almost died in that water. I believed her and as I sat coughing up water and shivering on the shore, I was repentant.

When I was nine, my brother and I were playing “king of the picnic table” in the backyard. My brother was seven, and he pushed me off the picnic table, proclaiming his victory. I landed on my right hand and heard an audible snap. Ensue hysterical screaming. My mother came out to see what the commotion was. She stopped 10 feet away, however. "I’m not coming a step closer until you hush up that screaming," she said. I hushed. She came close and felt of my arm. "It doesn't feel broken," she said, so off we went to church. I held my arm, black and blue, for the entire church meeting, my dad insisting it was fine.

At the end of the church meeting, they prayed for God’s healing to come to my arm. That healing took about 6 weeks to get there, and during those weeks my arm was surrounded by pink plaster of paris.

When I was ten, my brothers and I were playing in the woods, climbing a rock wall. Chad, the eight year old, grabbed a rock to throw off the wall we were on. His aim went vastly wrong and the rock ended up hitting me above the eye. I was bleeding profusely as I stumbled off the hill, walked determinedly home, and went inside the house: Mom? Mom, I think I’m hurt. I’m bleeding, I said as calmly as I could. She examined my eye, put me in the car and headed for the ER. Seven blue stitches later, I was headed home. I had more than my share of stitches growing up, mostly at the hands of my brothers.

But my brothers, especially Chad, were not entirely injury free. Chad had the dangerous combination of guts and intelligence. He was always dreaming up brilliant inventions with the neighborhood Jimmy Neutron Boy Genius. One of these inventions was a jet engine. It was made with a modified hair dryer, gasoline, and a lawnmower starter. It resulted in an explosion in Jimmy Neutron’s garage and a week of suspended privileges for ruining his mother’s hair dryer.

Chad was obsessed with flying machines. He thought that he should be able to modify his bike, scooter, or body so that he could fly, and generally his launch pad was our roof. He started out by stealing sheets and blankets for parachutes and wing covers. It was one scheme like this that had him on the roof with a glider made from sticks, chicken wire, sheets and two by fours. He had spent weeks designing a glider that would be launched on the first windy day. He chose the southwest corner of the house to launch his glider, which was unfortunate because it was the only corner of the house with a tree nearby. When Chad jumped off that roof with his wings of wire, he flew for about 4 feet, which was just far enough to land him directly over the tree that he fell into, hitting every branch on the way down. Chad landed on the ground below the tree hollering holy murder and holding his left arm. I came outside to see what the screaming was about and immediately returned to the house to get my mother.

My mother stopped ten feet away, telling him to hush up the screaming or she wouldn’t come a step closer. He hushed up and she took him immediately to the hospital for his own 6 weeks of casted arm. Another time, my brother set up a ladder and climbed up it to swing from the lovely wire that connected the garage to the house in order to power the garage with electricity.

Reaching the top of the ladder, Chad at the tender age of six, grabbed on with both hands and felt the lovely current coursing through his veins. My dad was nearby and knocked the ladder from under him, and caught Chad when he let go. John Mark, the youngest brother, seemed to learn from our experiences and didn’t try anything too crazy until he was out of the house. Somehow he survived his childhood without stitches, broken bones, or minor surgeries.

When I had children of my own, I was pretty sure my mom would have mellowed out and become the good grandma who bakes cookies and coddles her grandchildren. I could not have been more wrong. I came to pick up my kids a few weeks ago, who are now 8, 6, and 5, and found my mother sitting in a chair with an exhausted look on her face. My boys were passed out on the floor and my daughter was nowhere to be found.
The police came today, Mom! my daughter said excitedly when I found her.
I looked at my mom quizzically.
She smiled weakly.

Apparently my children were given free reign of the field and creek behind her apartment in central dallas fort worth. They found the manhole and had never learned the rule about death associated with manholes. The police were called by a concerned neighbor who thought that my children were not being supervised well enough in a dangerous area. My mom scoffed. It was not dangerous, and YOU should have taught them that manholes and storm sewers result in death, she said. Point taken.

being psychic - it's a tough job, but I knew I would do it all along

2012-12-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

“Do you have a recessive blue eye gene?” It’s a question I like to ask of people who have white skin and brown eyes because it really freaks them out that I would know that and they say “Yes, yes, I do! How did you know that?” Because I’m psychic of course, I answer, and they nod, a little in awe.

Truth is, I have very strong deductive reasoning skills. Since the majority of anglo-Americans are descended from, well, Europe, and the majority of Europeans have light colored eyes and pale skin, it seems a fair assumption that a brown eyed child of a blue eyed mother is reasonably likely, especially if that child is clearly Caucasian.

I am intuitive mainly, I think, because I think intelligent people have strong deductive reasoning skills and you make comparisons between people, the way they look, the way their body language is, how their eyes shift, their mannerisms – reading people becomes a hobby for me and a challenge – figuring out about people becomes second nature and voila! I’m psychic!

Another theory I have is that people act like their names – for instance: Marks are domineering, can have anger issues, generally gravitate toward perfectionism and are cautious. While they may or may not be good decision makers, they can make decisions – small ones relatively easily and larger ones require a great attention to being thoroughly prepared: completing exhaustive research to be sure that it is the correct thing to do. Impulsiveness is not a characteristic of Marks, instead they gravitate toward knowing what to expect. Marks also tend to be good with money –I’m really not sure why on this one. They just are.

Jessicas are principled and loyal to themselves and others. It’s a strange characteristic and I see it frequently in Jessicas – because the fact is, generally people are loyal to others or they are loyal to themselves but they are rarely both at the same time. Jessicas get along well with many different types of people, because they are personable, they can reach people that some might not be able to reach and they find common ground between themselves and that person so that the other person doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Jessicas are masters of making sure everyone is comfortable in a social situation, and although they won’t go out of their way to be social, whoever they are talking to (and a lot of people talk to them) feels comfortable talking to them. Jessicas also have deeply rooted belief systems. The loyalty to themselves comes into play here because they will rarely take something as fact if it doesn’t agree with their own internal value system. While the value system may be different than a standard run of the mill value, or even different from the values of those around them, they are loyal to that system and, while they won’t actively attack someone who disagrees with their system, they are stubborn and resistant to changes to their internal belief system. Jessicas also have a way of making lesser strong personalities believe in what they say – they are guardians of values and ideals and when you talk to a Jessica who is operating as a guardian, she will not only convince you that she is right, but mostly bring you completely on board with whatever it is she is preaching to you. This is why Jessicas are excellent spokes-people and evangelists. A bitter Jessica who loses faith in her ideals will end up guarding herself tightly against assaults on her personal value system and will become unapproachable and withdrawn.

It was this sort of thing that I was saying to someone at a bar where I was drinking with my best friend. It all started with my best friend and I heading to a bar we hadn't been to before. A gay bar, as it happens. We went to check out the lesbians and to see if we were lesbian material or could at least fit in with the group of people.

We like to see who we can fit in with and how other groups work, so we headed out to Jack’s Backyard for a night of lesbian fun. Immediately upon entering the bar, we realized we had made a cardinal straight-girl mistake: we brought purses. What were we thinking? Lesbians didn’t carry purses!

“Look over there!” I whispered to Shawn. “That girl has a PURSE. It’s slung across her shoulder and neck, do you see that? It’s definitely a purse.”

"NO ITS NOT!" she whispered back “It’s a wallet with a strap!”

“Well, close enough,” I said.

Just at that moment, a man came up to the girl, put his arm around her and kissed her. Shawn looked at me and shook her head. SHE'S NOT EVEN A LESBIAN! Jeez, we were dense.

Second mistake: we had worn makeup. Lesbians don’t wear obvious makeup. ((I was misinformed of the makeup practices of Lesbians because I got nearly all of my Lesbian knowledge from "The L Word" on HBO.))

And there were a lot of baseball caps and cargo shorts here too. We stuck out like straight girls in a lesbian bar. No one would talk to us, so I struck up a conversation with the gay guys next to me. In my experience gay guys were usually friendly, especially to straight girls. David and Michael were sitting next to us and I introduced myself.

Apparently David and Michael were having a fight of some sort and didn't want any part of my conversation, though they listened patiently while I went off about Republicans and Democrats and gay rights, and I’m pretty sure I had blabbered on incoherently for about ten minutes on topics I didn’t know anything about before Shawn jumped in with “DID YOU KNOW JONI IS PSYCHIC?”

She said it loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear it. I was in shock. I was not digging this idea, but then I had had 2 rum and diets, so I was in the mood to be accommodating. David and Michael looked duly impressed for a moment, then returned to their conversation.

My psychic abilities are a party gag, and something I pull out when I’m tired of feeling bored and having nothing to say. It is a handy trick to know when you’re in a crowded room full of people you don’t know who are staring at you with hostility.

A girl sitting two seats down from me looked at me with interest and then stuck out her hand.

"You’re psychic? Read my palm."

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Amber.”

And that’s how it started. Suddenly, I was on instant recall, trying to remember every Amber I had ever met. I started telling her everything I could think of about Ambers and also everything I thought about her personally, which was that she was damaged, cared a lot about what people thought, tried to help people, but only if it didn't interfere with her own goals. I went on and she was impressed.

David and Michael were too, and they stuck out their hands. Before the night was through, I had read twenty people’s auras or palms or whatever. I’m not sure if it was because they were drunk or because I was drunk, but they all said I was right.

That night at a lesbian bar, a psychic was born. That psychic was me.

life, love & source - interview with Tara Wagner!

2012-12-13T12:40:00.000-08:00

I found Tara Wagner (pronounced TAR-uh, like STAR-uh, without the S, obviously) through her amazing and insightful blog, The Organic Sister. Tara is a life coach and the creator of the Digging Deep process and the Organic Tribe. Her website, her message, and her life is about personal, inter-personal, and spiritual growth. "It's about overcoming our barriers and truly thriving - as women, as mothers, as creatives." I asked her if she would be willing to have an interview for my blog(s) and she said YES! I'm thrilled to give you her story, and I encourage you to check out her site for further inspiration.

Joni: Tell me your story. How did you get here, what is your religious background? How did you come to the relationship with God that you have today?

Tara: I was raised in the Christian church and followed along, because it's what I knew and therefore believed by default. But it was somewhere in my early 20's that the overwhelm descended, and the frustration. I couldn't feel or sense or hear "God" when I was surrounded by the noise and the music and the words of someone else, telling me what God was saying. That's when I heard the very clear direction that it was time to leave the church. "You can't connect with Spirit here."

It was a hard decision, wrapped with fear and guilt...after all, I had heard my whole life that not going to church was a "slippery slope". But I couldn't deny that it was Spirit asking me to leave. I began a long road of seeking other churches, then seeking church outside of a building, then simply seeking. Not in the have-to-find-somethng way I thought "seeking" meant. But in the way I discovered it meant for me: learning to see and hear and sense that thing that is a part of me and so much greater than me.

It took many years before I let go of the label of "Christian" (I had to take steps away, from Christian to Christian Universalist to Unitarian to finally just nothing, just a sense of connection with the Divine, with the Universe, with that Still Small Voice.) Although I knew it for a long time, it took me years to release the fear that God was vengeful or angry or jealous. It took me years to sense a presence that was truly unconditional love, not judging, not punishing, not keeping score, but simply wrapping itself around me when I allow it to, guiding and allowing me to experience, and offering wisdom where it's needed. And always reminding me that this is the dream, this is the "hell" that we've come to believe is "reality", and this is what I've come to learn. Life. My beliefs are eclectic now. I don't have a name for it. I just have a feeling. Certain things or philosophies or practices or texts give me that sense of Connection, and certain things don't.

Joni: What do you love about being where you are?

Tara: I love that I actually experience ALL of Life. That Life has become my spiritual work, what I'm here for. Before it was just something you suffer through, a waiting ground before you pass on. Now everything is a spiritual practice, everything holds shreds of Wisdom for me to notice or learn. Everything has meaning.

Joni: Is there anything you don't love?
Tara: I don't love trying to explain it to family or other Christians. ;) There is a lot of fear that I totally understand - I've been in that fearful place - but I can't take them on that journey from fear to love. It took me years of prayer and meditation and conversation to step into a relationship with Life and Love and Light. It's not something that can be explained, especially if a person doesn't want to experience it. So my practice there is just to love and accept. It's a hard practice. ;)

Joni: Do you feel God has a purpose for you? If so, what is it?

Tara: Yes. To live. To experience. To learn. To come back to what I've known all along. And to do the work I get to do while I'm here. Mamahood. Partnership. Supporting others. Accepting myself. Ultimately, it all boils down to learning how to love.

Joni: What are the perceptions you think people (on the outside) have of you?

Tara: Hmm, I have no idea. Maybe that I'm a "new age woo-woo hippie" or something like that. I don't spend much time there because getting my head into someone else's head is dangerous business for me. I'm better when I just release the need to know what others think and focus on where I am and what I'm practicing in that moment.

Joni: What one word describes the feeling your relationship with God gives you?
Tara: Big. Or maybe Mysterious. I used to think a religion needed to give you all the answers. Now I understand that it's much too big for my small body to comprehend, much too mysterious to fathom. I've come to peace with knowing that some things are unknown.

Joni: If you had a voice to tell the whole world something about the God you know, what would you say?

Tara: I don't think I'd say anything. It goes back to that dangerous business of me being in others heads...or in this case, in their business or their process or their experience of Life and Love and Source. There are parts of me that wish everyone could experience Love without the fear-based beliefs. But ultimately, I believe that it's okay. That everything is as it should be. That the only thing I get to do is practice my practice and share when I get to and love throughout all of it, releasing any idea that I can change or fix or heal another person (or that they even need changing or fixing or healing!).

Tara's website, The Organic Sister, has many helpful resources and support for women in all stages of the journey!

Resigning as wife

2012-12-13T07:00:00.001-08:00

Year 4 of relationship. It was a rough year.

“I’m resigning as wife.” I said and handed my sweetheart a sheet of paper with the WIFE responsibilities on it. Those would be the things he refuses to do because he’s a man and I’m a woman and those things are “Women’s work.”

Besides being a full-time employee, I juggled all the responsibilities of childcare, cooking, cleaning, cleaning up after The Dog (who shall remain nameless), cleaning up after my husband, in all of his idiosyncrasies, paying all the bills, making the doctors’ appointments and school meetings, grocery shopping, performing feats of home remodeling to include calking a bathroom, texturing walls, hanging mirrors, pictures, and sheet rock, painting, hammering, nailing, screwing, taping, bedding, scraping, moving, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Why can’t he patch the nail holes? Because we don’t have the right kind of patch. If there's one phrase that sums up my husband it's this: "If I can’t do it right, I can’t do it." Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a "git 'er done!" kinda gal. However it works, I'm cool with that.

One week, he dropped a dozen eggs on the floor and broke every one of them. The logical next step in any man’s mind is to call the dog. The dog happily lapped up the eggs, the promptly went to relieve herself with explosive diarrhea all over the kids’ rooms. Diarrhea that was destined to sit on the floor for the next five days until it was “dry enough” to vacuum up. Diarrhea that has since stained my carpet forever with a greenish black tone on the beige even AFTER steam cleaning.

Approximately 2 days later, she was still sick, and vomited on the carpet right outside my door. My entire house is tile except for a few square feet in the kids rooms and in my room and the hallway. She chooses these areas to shit and puke.

This is a cute Weimaraner. Do not let that fool you.
They are noxious beasts.

Aside from that, The Dog is a 65 pound high-strung Weimaraner. She barks at everything, including (but not limited to): children, grandmas, the post man, crickets, lizards, birds, ghosts, and squirrels.

She eats everything, too – but her preferred diet consists of what she can glean from the trash cans. On more than one occasion I have come home from work to find my used sanitary products in shreds on the floor, the majority devoured by this disgusting dog. Bring on the diarrhea.

She also loves bars of soap. You cannot leave a bar of soap unguarded, or she will get on the counter with her front paws and swallow the bar in two bites.

The Dog came with my sweetie, or I would have long since disposed of her. As it is, I tolerate her in small doses, banning her from my room and excusing her to the backyard every chance I get.

Those glowing eyes are the eyes of a demon.
Note: Aren't the kids adorable? They were so little!!

When I served my resignation as wife, my sweetie said nothing. We have had in the past conversations where I mention that "a little help around the house would be great" and he cites “women’s work” and "possession of a penis" as reasons he will not partake.

The mysterious thing about my sweetie is that, although he doesn't believe in doing the work, he DOES maintain very strong opinions about how the work should be done. For instance, leftovers should always be heated up in the oven or on the stove rather than in the microwave, because the microwave gives everyone cancer and there is no proof of anyone having cancer before microwaves.

For him, this means that his food is hot on his plate when he eats and he knows it has come out of a pan, almost as if it was cooked for the first time. For me, this means not only do I have to clean up a plastic container that was used to store the food in the fridge, but also whatever containers were used to reheat said food, AND the plate he ate it off of.

He refuses to eat off paper plates. He believes that paper plates are not only unhealthy, but they are slowly ruining the environment. I tried to plead the case that paper plates could be recycled, but he would hear nothing of it. It is glass plates or bust.

He recycles obsessively. On a typical day, I will get a pile of junk mail at my house. I throw it all in the trash. He digs it out of the trash and sorts it for recycling. Shiny paper is returned to the wastebasket. Newspaper (the BEST kind for recycling) along with paper letters and envelopes are put into the shredding/compost bin. Envelopes with plastic on them are disassembled, taking off the plastic (which goes in the trash) and placing the paper portion in the recycling/shredding for compost bin. None of this is given to the recycling company who comes by once a week to pick up recycling because he likes to save it up until he has 100 or 150 pounds, then go to my work and shred it all. Then, he brings back the shredded paper in a garbage bag, sets it in my garage for several weeks before I finally throw it all into the recycling bin for the city to pick up. This is our pattern.

He also recycles cardboard (every box must be broken down), plastic and glass. These he allows the city to pick up, except for a few “Special” items that he likes to hang onto. Primarily: Wine bottles (so he can someday make a chandelier out of them), glass spaghetti sauce containers (to use for storage of leftovers because glass is infinitely better than plastic for storage), and aluminum cans. He will save aluminum cans until he has enough cans to fill the back of his truck. He has a very big truck.

At one point, we lived in an apartment with no recycling service, and all of the recycling was saved in one of the closets. Did I mention that the apartment was tiny? He saved every piece of recycling until the closet was full. Completely full. It was a walk in closet. Slowly, I had to sneak out the recycling to the dumpster when he wasn't around. He didn't notice much.

Aluminum soda and beer cans are saved for as long as it takes to fill up the back of his truck. We currently have roughly ~~500~~ 1000 cans sitting in the garage awaiting their cohorts to be taken to aluminum recycling, where he can get money for them. Yay, money! I would imagine he gets about $25 for the whole load and I ask you this: is it really worth the marital conflict to get $25 for cans?
Note: I know it sounds like we are alcoholics with 1000 beer cans in our garage, but, really, he has only recycled the cans one time in the past 6 years, so this is years and years worth of cans.

He insists on urinating in the backyard. Moreover, he insists that his urine kills “bad” grass and makes “good” grass grow. The good grass is Bermuda, which he pronounces “burrmoooduh.” The bad grass is St. Augustine, which he pronounces “san-og-us-teen”. He does this when we have company, too. He continues the good grass bad grass commentary while he is urinating and our guests are listening to the water feature newly installed behind us in the person of my husband. He encourages our guests to urinate in the backyard as well. Generally, they decline. Sometimes, they agree.

He also likes to supervise the dish washing and laundry. Laundry must be done a certain way, according to specifications. The colors must be separated and each piece inspected for possible stains. Any stains must be pre-treated for no less than twenty-four hours before commencing washing. The washer must be operated at the lowest possible temperature and water level in order to conserve energy. Washing dishes must include scrubbing each dish before washing. Oddly, a dish that The Dog has eaten off of can go directly into the dishwasher, but a bowl that had cereal and milk (with no crusty residue) must be washed thoroughly to remove germs prior to washing in the dishwasher.

Each dish must be inspected carefully upon removal from the dishwasher to insure cleanliness of said dish. Cleaning, he tells me, is something my mother never taught me how to do correctly, and he feels the need to critique my cleaning almost every time I clean ANYTHING in front of him. Which is why I do my cleaning while he is distracted with video games.

The first few times he critiqued my cleaning, I blew up at him. I don’t take criticism well, as a rule, and criticism of my family is definitely not accepted gracefully. I told him that if he wanted it cleaned differently then he should get over here and clean it himself. At this juncture, he informed of The Penis Rule.

The Penis Rule is this: If you have a penis, you don’t have to clean, but a benevolent penis possessor should instruct those poor unfortunate souls without a penis on how to properly perform any and all tasks.

Now you know.

Air Force Girl (continued)

2012-12-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

Continued from here!

Within the first week, I was seriously regretting my decision to join the Air Force, reserves or not. The waking up at 4 am wasn't difficult. It wasn't hard to shove food down my throat and avoid eye contact, and try to remain invisible. It wasn't hard to memorize the shapes of the aircraft, or the ranks, or to learn how to salute.

The exercise was AWFUL, though. I hated every minute of it. If push-ups and sit-ups were excruciating pain, RUNNING was hell. I had to run two miles in under twenty-two minutes and every single second of that time, I hated my life.

When we were gathered to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases, or to get some sort of air injection, or possibly just to watch a propaganda film about how amazing the Armed Forces are one afternoon, standing outside of a building waiting to go in, I overheard someone talking to the flight next to us. That person was the Air Force Band Director.

I heard him mention something about avoiding kitchen duties, and less time in physical training, and I was IN. I hoped and prayed he would come talk to our flight, and over he came a few minutes later. He asked our group if any of us had any experience in band. I had learned in my first twenty four hours in Air Force Basic Training NEVER to volunteer for anything, so what I did next surprised even me.

My hand shot up and I begged to be part of the Air Force Band, citing “life-long dream” and “long family history of musical talent” which wasn't entirely untrue. Truth be told, I had played clarinet in the marching band in high school. I had also tried playing trumpet a few times and had managed to squeak out a note or two. I had also played classical piano for about ten years. He asked what instruments I played, and my mouth started moving: “Percussion (where did THAT come from?), piano, organ, trumpet, clarinet, saxophone, bagpipes, pretty much any wind instrument, and guitar.”

I was a veritable musical prodigy! He had heard of kids like me, I bet I looked like a genius that day. I had at least SEEN these instruments being played, and touched them (with the exception of bagpipes). I was told to pack my bags and move my shit to the Band Squadron, and THAT, my friends, is how I escaped not only all kitchen duty, but also the majority of physical training.

I was given the xylophone to play (I know, the one instrument I hadn’t mentioned being an expert at), and I wasn't terrible. The rest of the six weeks flew by. One girl got kicked out of our squadron for being completely crazy. Another for smoking weed on the landing outside our window, but for the most part, we all barely passed our physicals, and played in the band as much as possible. We even marched in a parade – a FIELD TRIP, which included lunch off base and a bus ride with the Band Director, who wasn't much of a yeller.

I had strategically timed my entrance into the Air Force so that that first six weeks would include two holidays – Christmas AND Thanksgiving. They couldn't be too hard on us during the holidays, and I might get to see my family. Smart thinking, because indeed that was true! I had my first Air Force Thanksgiving at Denny’s with my mom and my boyfriend.

During basic training, I got a letter in my fifth week from my mom. Apparently my parents were splitting up, and I was devastated. I went to my Staff Sergeant, SSgt. Brothers, and explained in tears that I didn’t think I could go on.

“Well, Martin,” he said. “You can choose to let this mess up your life, or you can go on despite this upset. The truth is, shit happens, and you do what you gotta do and make the best out of it and move on. Do you want this to ruin your life, Martin?”

Me, quavering: “Noooo…..”

He nodded. “Good then, we’re on the same page. Now get out there and show them how you can go on in spite of what they did.”

I did, for six more wake-ups, until graduation day.

My Basic Training Squadron, Circa 1997 (I'm the one with the mask on)

Fortune Cookies, the Air Force, and ADD

2012-12-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

I compulsively save fortunes from fortune cookies. Especially if it’s a good one, I will keep it for years, in a zipper pocket of my purse, taped to my computer, in the change bowl on my desk. I’m superstitious about fortunes because I have this idea that someday in the future, I’m going to get one that tells me what I’m supposed to do with my life.

I have career/school/job/religion/life ADD. Something about the status quo has never made me happy and has never felt right. Why have one career for the rest of your life, when you can try out thirty or forty? Last count, I had had thirty-eight jobs to date, yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an accomplishment.

It always sounds like a good idea to begin with: like joining the Air Force. When I joined the Air Force, it sounded like a great idea. At nineteen, I had already recognized my issues with long-term commitment.

Growing up I couldn't decide between being a spy, a writer, a teacher, a doctor or a model. So I tried all five. ((Well, I didn't TRY doctor, I followed a doctor around and got a job at a hospital. Nonetheless.)) At nineteen, my friends were settling into a course of study, second year into their majors, and excited about finally becoming everything they had dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was holding down my third job, one at a temp agency where I didn't have to go to the same place more than once. It was perfect for me, I have no idea why I quit.

Clearly the solution to my job-ADD was to lock myself into a six year contract with the government. So, I joined the AF Reserves ((just to be safe)) and excitedly took my ASVAP, acing it with flying colors. My recruiter told me I could have any job in the air force including, but not limited to: Jet Engine Mechanic, Linguistics, Intelligence, Psychology, Mind Control and Prison Warden.

He warned me that most prison wardens ended up in Guantanamo Bay, though, and “frankly, that’s not really a place you want to be.” I appreciated his honesty. And I chose “Medical Laboratory Technician.” Fancy name for “puts labels on poop and pee samples, tests blood, and tries not to get any contagious diseases.” I romanticized the idea of military service in my head – after all, my family was a military family!

My grandfathers had both served in the Army, my Uncle retired from the Army, my cousin was in the Air Force, and my brothers would soon join the Marines and the Navy. It was meant to be: and not only that, it would make me a hero. I imagined the rigors of boot camp and coming out of it a dirty, sweaty Service Woman, with my uniform rumpled, but clingy, and a strand of hair that had escaped my BDU cap hanging over my left eye giving me a sexy yet amazingly strong look. I also imagined my lips had grown poutier and fuller at boot camp, and my complexion was beautiful and radiant. Something like this:

Typically, when I take on a new project, I abandon everything in single minded pursuit… that is, until I grow bored. Which happens rather quickly, it seems. Knowing that I may indeed grow tired of this idea of military valor, I joined on a Monday and signed up for the first available date for basic training.

I boarded a plane and headed for San Antonio, TX, home of the illustrious Lackland Air Force Base, where I would spend the next six weeks of my life in misery. What I failed to remember when I signed up for the Air Force was that I had a very low heat tolerance, a very low tolerance for yelling of any kind, and, oh yeah, I hated all things physically exerting.

I didn't remember this tiny detail until I was sitting in the San Antonio airport waiting for the Lackland bus to pick up all the new recruits. I considered bolting, I must say. Instead, I sat steeling my nerves for the unknown. The unknown is somewhat tempting to me, so the draw was strong enough to keep me from puking when I climbed aboard the Air Force bus. It wasn't until the bus pulled away from the airport that I realized there was no turning back. Arriving on base in my blue jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes and my hair pulled back in a pony tail, I looked at my fellow recruits. My comrades at arms. My soon-to-be prison mates, sharing in the same torture I would endure.

Arriving at the squadron, we were greeted by a friendly sergeant who saw nothing good about our motley group and yelled at us to get our asses off the bus and line up. Did we know what “lines” were? Were we just stupid? We had to be the stupidest group he had ever seen. Then, they went through our bags. I had packed as instructed:

Laundry soap,
ball-point pen (black or blue – I chose blue),
shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush and toothbrush tray, toothpaste,
notebook and paper,
black shoe polish, shine brush, shine cloth,
shower shoes,
soap & soap tray,
sanitary napkins/tampons,
sports bras,
hair bands, bobby pins,
underwear,
brush,
nude panty hose,
two towels,
envelopes,
cotton balls,
spray starch,
nail clippers,
razors and shaving cream,
white socks,
watch,
calling card,
and glasses (apparently you weren't allowed to wear contacts, but I would test this theory).

My duffle bag contained no contraband ((save the pictures crammed in my Bible.)) Others were not so lucky. A young man a few feet over for me had apparently stopped at Church's Chicken on his way in to the airport. They have amazing honey in little individual packet, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the angry man in a caricature of a hat going through his bag:

“What is your name?” the training instructor yelled at the young man.

“Jeff Peters.”

“Jeff PETERS? Jeff Peters, what? Jeff Peters, you address me as sir.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the young man said hopefully.

“Do you think you’re in the ARMY, Jeff Peters? We don’t say ‘sir, yes sir’ here! We just say 'sir.' Here is a correct response, Jeff Peters: ‘my name is Jeff Peters, Sir.’ Try that, Peters.”

“My name is Jeff Peters, sir.”

“Now, Jeff Peters, I think you’re lying to me. I think your name is Winnie the Pooh. You know why? Because you got a bag full of HONEY! Now what were you thinking bringing HONEY to Basic Training, Peters? Did you think this was the hundred acre wood? Do I LOOK like Christopher Robbin to you, Peters?”

“Uh, no, sir. I got that on my way here, sir—“

“Yeah, and did you think the UNITED STATES AIR FORCE basic training was going to be the kind of place where you could sit back and lick honey off your paws, Peters?”

“Uh – “

“Did you get a list of WHAT TO BRING, Peters?”

“Yes, uh, yes, I did… Sir.”

“And was HONEY on that list, Peters? Did it say ‘socks, jock strap, and HONEY, Peters?”

“No, Sir.”

“I didn’t think so.”

It went on like this for several hours. One unfortunate girl brought homemade cookies made by a well-meaning grandma. One girl brought a book (like we would have time to read!). A couple of guys brought magazines of the auto variety, and one VERY unfortunate boy brought a pair of relatively skimpy underwear. When they finally got through with us, they sent us upstairs to collapse in exhaustion until the next flight arrived and all the lights were turned on in the dorm while those girls got yelled at.

We tried to sleep, but it was much like sleeping in a subway tunnel during the five o’clock hour. Our Training Instructor (or TI) was Staff Sargent Hamilton, a terrifying man who stood about two inches shorter than me, but yelled like no other. He took particular offense to those of us girls who were taller than he. More than once, he reduced us to tears on the first day.

To be continued...

jolee's journey

2012-12-10T06:25:00.000-08:00

Jolee and I met through birth groups. I'm not sure either one of us could pinpoint when we met exactly, but when I met her I knew immediately that I liked her and we were kindred spirits. Her story is one that I identify with and I hope you do too!! She is a birth educator, happily married to Andy, and lives in Keller where she raises chickens (much to the chagrin of her neighbors!). Jolee and Andy have 3 boys: Ronin, Jones and Finn. (Yes, I adore those names!)

I was born, almost 40 years ago, into the Bible Belt of Texas. More specifically, I spent the majority of my youth and schooling in a small town of 600 people in West Texas in which there was a Catholic church, a Church of Christ, a Methodist church and a Baptist church – and you better belong to one. My mother, who did not grow up in that small town like my father, saw herself as none of the above, and she carted us an extra 15 miles to a larger neighboring town so that we could go to the Episcopal Church.

Most of my school friends didn't even know what that word meant, so I learned to call it “Catholic Light.” (All the same rules, but none of the mortal sin! Did you get that? No? Then you probably aren't Catholic.) My mother was active in the Episcopal church – very active. And I came to be, too. Mom volunteered for the Altar Guild, which basically meant going to a lot of trouble and ceremony, while leaving your family for large chunks of time... for funerals, weddings and general services. In other words, she seemed to be gone most of the time we were home from school.

I was persuaded to Acolyte, which meant assisting the priest during service. I did this most Sundays, at early church, throughout my high school years, as well as learning most of my mother's Altar Guild duties so I could help her get out of there faster. So, I guess you could say, I've put in my time.

While I was being Episcopalian on the side, I listened to religious drama from my hometown friends. It became apparent that they saw each other through these religious glasses – and formed opinions based upon people's religious affiliations. I was clueless in this respect. I was granted immunity from having to size people up based upon religion, simply because I did not partake in anything related to “organized religion” in that small community.

I didn't think about it at the time, but it was a huge positive for me. As I grew up, I had friends from every church – it didn't matter to me. I became very good friends with the Baptist preacher and his family. They ended up throwing me a 16th birthday party. One of my very best friends was Catholic, and I heard many tales of nuns and confession. My uncle (who was also my math teacher) and his wife went to the Methodist Church, as did my piano teacher (so our recitals were there).

I was peripherally involved in some way in all of those hometown churches. The only trouble I ever had that sort of centered on religion was a heated discussion (or two) I had with a good Catholic friend. The issue was abortion. He was an intelligent boy. We competed in science and math competitions together, and we even held hands at a dance, but on abortion we could not agree. It became clear to me as he argued, that his opinion was not based upon logic or even his passion; it was based upon what had been told to him at church. The church had made up his mind – or at least this is how I saw it. I saw my arguments based upon logical thought, and I saw his arguments based upon... something that was told to him. And that's as simple as I made it at the time.

Being an independent feminist, even at 16, I sort of resented anyone telling me how or what to think... and giving me no way to discuss it or present my side. I think around this time I started seeing organized religion as a sort of dominating cloud. My little out-of-the-way church never judged me (or more likely I never hung around long enough for them to – I went back to my hometown!). My church never told me how to think. Or at least I didn't think so at the time. I neither wholeheartedly identified with, nor vehemently challenged the Episcopal Church. It was just there, a place I went full of fairly decent people. I listened, so many times, to sermons, to the standard service, at special occasions.

Current issues (like abortion, birth control, flag burning, homosexuality) at church were never discussed in sermon – the mass was strictly adhered to (reading from the Bible), communion was had, a bit of a sermon (usually interpreting said Bible reading), then out for donuts. I had many an opportunity sitting there all those cumulative hours to ruminate upon a higher power.

One thing I did notice – the church took my mom away a lot. She was gone all the time, it seemed. The church made her cranky. Getting ready for Easter was traumatic (it was the only time my dad and brother came to church). We would celebrate if my mother didn't curse or use the Lord's name in vain on Easter morning as she was helping us get ready. After church, I remember sitting and waiting in the car for my mother for what seemed like hours while she spoke with people at church, or finished up her Altar Guild. There were social rules for us to follow – and obligations to people. We needed to be sure and speak to Mrs. Collingsworth because she had sent us a graduation card, or we needed to volunteer to make sandwiches for the Annual Meeting, or we should be in the handbell choir.

My mom let me wear whatever I wanted to church. She said as long as I was going, I should dress however I wanted, so there are many times I recall wearing my dad's jeans cinched up with a belt, with holes in the knees, tucked into my tall black cowboy boots. As you might imagine, many people made comment. I thought it was kind of silly. Didn't they have better things to do? I thought it was awesome at the time for mom to support me in wearing what I wanted, and I think it's awesome now.

One time, despite my physical dedication to being at church and helping, and despite the sacrifices of my mother while she slaved away at the church, our priest called my sister and me “little shits.” I cannot remember what we discussed per se, but my sister and I were taught to speak our minds in respectful tones, so I'm sure we said something he didn't like, but I know we weren't disrespectful. In my limited memory, I think we were debating something, and I remember getting the best of him (I loved debate). I still remember his beet red face as he said it. That moment sort of turned me on religion. Right there.

(Incidentally, that wasn't the last time I agitated a Man of God. Another time, several years later, working at a homeless shelter, I asked a Theology student and a reverend's wife if God had a penis. I just wanted them to provide a well thought-out answer. But they never really recovered from that question... and I still kind of feel bad about asking it.)

As an adult and parent now, I do try to see how I might have been perceived at this point in my life as a young adult – by the priest, by our fellow Christians, by our church and community. I'm sure it isn't easy to have a 15-year-old argue with you if you are the priest of a church, regardless of how “polite” she is being. I do know this though: adults do not really enjoy children or young adults thinking for themselves and having opinions... and they certainly don't like those opinions spoken aloud against their own. But, on the other hand, I know in expressing myself, I could have come off as arrogant. I mean having a young adult school you in something is hard, even for the most enlightened of us. And so I take this into consideration. I am telling events only as I remember them, as they make up this story I call my life.

So back to me turning on religion. Of course, everything that happened up until then helped with that, too. In my mind, there were many cons to church: the time it took for my mother, the familial sacrifice and impact it had for those that volunteered at the church, the crankiness it caused mom, the anti-logical (black and white) arguments it presented against societal customs, the misogyny that existed in Biblical interpretations, the judgments it seemed to cause people to have – and my priest cussing at me. The pros seemed... non-existent. I certainly wasn't getting many pros from it. I didn't feel full when I left. I didn't necessarily believe that the Bible was a fact-based document. While the idea of religion could be so beautiful, it just never really settled with me. My idea of Jesus at the time was that His message was love... and that he supported me, no matter what I wanted to wear to church, much like my mother.

Several years later, in college, I had the exact same abortion debate with a boy, a Baptist, and his arguments sounded all too familiar. We had many religious discussions. He told me he knew Jesus had lived, he knew Jesus had been crucified, and he knew Jesus was the son of God. He KNEW it. I asked him how. He said he had faith, he just believed. This amazed me, this certainty he had, and it fascinated me. This was a very smart boy. What would make someone stake his life that something happened if he didn't know for certain? The logical side of me didn't get it. It didn't take long to unravel that boy's faith... and I don't take full credit in the unravel. He and I spoke a lot about this topic, intellectually, emotionally and from our hearts... And then I married him a few years later.

What all of those discussions with my husband-to-be illustrated was the FEAR organized religions use to keep people in the church. I have cried at what my husband had to endure as a child. Elaborate scare tactics were used to keep him from having sex before marriage or listening to rock music. He couldn't watch the Smurfs because they did magic. He never seemed to have that “Jesus love and support” thing like I had at my core – he seemed to take away that God and Jesus were angry and vindictive and would seriously send him straight to hell if he had an erection or a “bad” thought. Can you imagine what this might do to a forming mind, to a sensitive child, to a sexually maturing boy? I quite frankly, think it's despicable. But I digress. Telling his story is something I can't do. This is my story.

Around this time, I read a book called “Bloodline of the Holy Grail” and a new world was opened to me. I'm not saying it is all truth because I don't know. But the world it opened up was one of question and doubt about the Bible as it is presented to us in organized religion The book offered at least one fairly good explanation of the history of Jesus. If it offered one, there could be others. It had some simpler answers to me than the complicated assertions of the Bible. Overall, I enjoyed it, and I felt like whatever Jesus was, son of God or a historical figure, I was content not to worship him.

I decided that I was not a Christian. I didn't admit this out loud, but I knew it in myself. I even said it to myself in those words, feeling a little bit naughty. (Have you ever answered the loaded question “Are you a Christian?” with a “No”? I can't even go there with them. I don't have time to get into it with Christians... I've spent my life doing it, and now I'm tired.) I didn't go Atheist or anything. I was content not to have the answers. The message of Jesus in the Bible still held a place inside my heart. The love, the acceptance, the equality he had for every person seemed right to me. And as I begin to know a little about other religions, they seemed to have this same core. There were stories and illustrations helping people be better PEOPLE. Most religions began with love – or so it seemed.

When you think about it, religions are so similar. Why do we concentrate on the differences? We magnify them and let them divide us, just as we do politics. But, at the end of the day, don't we all just want to feel loved? I'll answer that for you. Why, YES. Yes, we do. And most holy books instruct us how to do so with words and parables. They are almost child-like stories (at least in the Bible) of good and bad, right and wrong. In my mind, I have started to look at these stories as if written for children, setting the foundation for love and empathy (when the world is easily seen in black and white).

But it is up to us to mature and to grow in love, to develop further and leave these stories behind – to make our own. To question, to grow in knowing oneself, to be one with our fellow humans, to know we are all connected and to make the harder calls in life. When I had a miscarriage a few years after my husband and I married, I wanted to turn to something, to someone greater and bigger than me. I wanted to have ceremony again (as I had been raised in the Episcopal church). I wanted to remember this soul that left me while at the same time to acknowledge my place in this world, the love I have for others even when times were hard.

I had never prayed in any conventional way, and I didn't believe in going back on that now to do a “Dear God” thing... so I thought about what was really important to me, what I truly believed, and this is how I began: "Father-Mother God, All-Knowing Universe, Inner Self... please hear me." And I listed the people who were important to me, who needed light and love, who were sick, injured or suffering. I named myself because I needed healing... and so began the way I address my own personal deity. And it resonates with me deeply.

I am still on a journey, and that journey has long since left organized religion behind – and dare I say I most likely will never look back. I am now convinced that nothing is worth knowing really. We will never know with our minds. All we can do is live today, the best life we can, delving into ourselves, living simply, staying present, perhaps practicing yoga and self-reflection, doing good to others. I think with our actions and mental outlooks, we create the world around us. With our perspectives, we mold realities, we manifest destinies, we accomplish the incredible. I believe in blessing our food, our water and our friends (as well as their sneezes). I believe thoughts become things. I believe we are all one.

And, perhaps most importantly, I agree with Mother Teresa when she said “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” Now, excuse me while I get a tissue. Sometimes the humanity gets to me.

Jolee's website is: http://www.barefootandprepared.com/

Because I'm boring like that...

2012-12-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I wrote a memoir. Well, half a memoir. ((Because I don't actually ever finish anything I start.)) Anyway, this year I realized the inevitable. My memoir will never be edited and published because I'm just too damn lazy. So I decided that I would just publish some of it on here.

Granted, this is probably mostly unrelated to religion and my current hippie path... but it is something, and for that, you should be grateful! Ha.

Look for the first installment on Monday, and until then, I will leave you with this picture as a hint of the topic.

I am 19, I don't remember that guy's name, and this picture was taken
in the food court of a mall in Wichita Falls, TX

why I am an asshole ((or)) objectivity: the new racism

2012-12-06T13:48:00.001-08:00

I am objective to a fault. I have this incredibly irritating ability, it seems, to see many sides of an issue at once, and actually understand where they are coming from. This ability drives people CRAZY. It makes them mad. It causes them to rant at me for hours about how my position is WRONG.

But the problem is, mostly, I don’t have a position. Mostly, I just point out the validity of the position that is in direct opposition to their own. The collective “they” don’t like this. The additional, minor, problem is that I don’t have a lot of diplomacy. I like to argue a point logically and rationally, and sometimes with great vigor and passion, but generally that point is not a part of my being.

My counterparts, who are arguing equally vigorously and equally passionately are only arguing that way because their point is integrally WHO THEY ARE. They take offense when I point out their flawed logic because they perceive it as a personal attack, when in reality, in my head it went like this:
Point, Counterpoint, Point, Counterpoint, Point, Counterpoint, SCORE. One for me.
Point, Counterpoint, weak point which is entirely a plea for emotional sympathy, firm counterpoint pointing out the weak emotionalism, dissolves to tears, SCORE. I win.

This is the game I play, and I only just realized I’ve been doing this. And THIS makes me an asshole.

awakening

2012-12-05T07:40:00.001-08:00

I met Katelyn a few years ago on the internet where we connected over being a doula, and natural childbirth. As our friendship grew, so did the depth of our conversations. Sometimes, when you are on a path, you find others who are walking down the path you are and help you along the way. Katelyn is part of my tribe and it has given me great joy and encouragement to watch her journey. She is a mother to two beautiful girls, a wife to one amazing husband, a friend to many, a writer, and a very gifted photographer, but more than anything else, she is an explorer. Our souls recognized one another immediately when we met and she will always be a kindred spirit.Her blog about her journey is called Gypsy Moth Sol, and her beautiful photography work can be seen at Katelyn Demidow Photography.

Katelyn's Journey

"Long Exhale" by Katelyn Demidow Photography

As a child I was raised Baptist. There were moments I remember while growing up that I would feel, deeply, a connection with the earth around me. Like it had a soul, a spirit and that maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could control it. Just a little bit.

I pushed those feelings aside, or rather, hid them far within myself. Out of fear of even questioning anything, I got baptized at a young age, feeling if I did not, I was going to hell. So I obeyed. And I went through the motions. But did not feel it in my core. I could not admit that to myself at the time.

Coming into my twenties, I got pregnant and my relationship with this part of myself morphed. Pregnancy and childbirth really opened me up. I was confused again about what I believed. I started asking all the questions I was afraid to as a child. This made me judgmental, snarky and downright rude at times. It was the big lead up to letting go of the fear and letting my own personal truths into the light.

I am not a Christian. I had to admit that to myself first before I could go forth. There are certain aspects I simply cannot agree with but most importantly, I cannot adhere to religion itself.
I choose to be nonreligious.
I choose to be completely spiritual.

From Christianity, I choose Jesus’ example of unconditional love. I try to emulate this.
From Paganism, I choose to honor the earth and all of nature, knowing that it too, has spirits and souls within it.
I highly respect the Shamanic journey. The guidance from those before us. From nature.
From Buddhism, I love the interconnectedness between souls and the search to end ignorance in our lives.

I am still very much in the messy throws of soul work. Learning different ways to heal, to grow, to love and to help. All I know is there is something(s) bigger than us. Something connecting us to this earth and to each other. That we are a part of something divine.

There is magic all around us. That I cannot deny.

Peace and Love.

hands off! It's MINE!

2012-11-20T06:40:00.000-08:00

I found myself faced with an interesting dilemma recently. Sitting on my backporch early one morning, I saw someone walking past my fence on the side near the street.They were walking slowly, peaking through the slats, bending down and walking again. It did not take me long to figure out that they were taking the pecans from my tree that had fallen on outside of my fence. No WONDER I never found any over there when I went to gather them!

When my sweetheart went over to meet the new neighbor, he found the culprit. Without shame, the man said "I've been taking and eating the pecans that fall in your yard by the sidewalk. I'll take any more pecans you have that you don't want!"

When he told me of the conversation, I was outraged. Is it not enough that all the neighborhood kids strip our apple tree of her unripe apples and use them as weapons throwing them up and down the street, sometimes taking a bite or two before they waste them? Now we have full-grown men who should know better taking things that don't belong to them without asking? I commenced into a full-blown diatribe about how poorly people behave these days and how it's no wonder that we have so many problems in the world with an entire generation of badly raised children. I was full of righteous indignation.

My sweetheart the agnostic looked at me, then said quietly,"Baby, that's not very nice. Set a good example. Stop acting so "American Christian": Indians believe that the world belongs to none of us and we should all share her gifts."

I seethed for a moment more before I felt the sting of his words set in.That beautiful pecan tree, selflessly giving me the fruit of his branches, the apple tree with her quiet pink showers of pink petals and plump apples. I didn't make those trees. I don't own them, and someone will come after me who also doesn't own them. How can I stake a claim on "my" part of the earth?

I remembered the Bible verse in Luke: "Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back." and in Matthew, "If a man takes your coat, give him your shirt also."

This earth is simply borrowed from our children. And I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see (Ghandi). Tomorrow, when I make pecan pies for our Thanksgiving celebration, I will share one with my neighbor and I will say a prayer of thanks for the trees who gave me shelter and nourishment.

names

2012-11-19T06:23:00.000-08:00

I have a party gag I like to do. Sometimes when I'm out and about, I play this game with strangers I meet. "Tell me your name and I'll tell you about yourself." People look at me funny, then they laugh and with raised eyebrows they tell me their name. I tell them what I know about that name. Names say a lot about a person - not always the name you were given at birth, but what you go by.

Sometimes I'm wrong. More often, I'm right. About 95% of the time I'm right. Because names are powerful things - they make us who we are.

"But that doesn't seem right, how can something so important, something that makes me who I am, be given to me by someone else? Don't I have control over my own destiny and life? How, then, can a name I had no choice about define me?"

It's a question I get a lot when I'm playing this game... I smile and shrug, usually. I don't know how it works, I just know it works. People don't like not being 100% in charge of who they are.

I believe that everyone we allow into our heart names us - they call us friend, sister, wife, mother, soul-mate, daughter... and with the name, they change us, we evolve toward who we are meant to be.

There are so many people who have named me in this life, and I am thankful for their gift. My daughters and my mothers, my sisters and brothers, my friends and soul-mates, my husband and my tribe-members. Thank you for the gift of my name.

forgiveness only goes as far as murdering a child

2012-11-13T06:35:00.000-08:00

So I read an interesting study recently done by an American University. In the study, participants were taken into 2 separate rooms.
The Rules: There are 2 participants in each experiment. One of them must receive a good reward (such as a candy bar), one must receive a punishment of doing something undesirable (such as writing the same sentence 100 times).

One participant is given the opportunity to EITHER choose whether to assign the prize unilaterally, OR to flip a coin so that the prizes are decided fairly. The other participant would not know whether the coin was flipped or the prize was assigned unilaterally.

The majority of participants opted for flipping the coin, because it was more fair, BUT in 85% of the coin flips, the prize was awarded in the flippers favor. So it would seem that APPEARING fair is more important to the participant than actually BEING fair.

In similar blind studies, when the deciding participant was given complete privacy from the experimentors, the participant chose the reward over the punishment.

Equality and Fairness are ideals that we embrace... to a point.

Taken a step further: justice. We desire justice as long as the outcome is in our favor. We want justice...to protect our values, our kids, our society from perceived deviance. We as Americans might be likely to do anything to make justice happen...to justify the decisions and sacrifices we made to ensure that we would be safe from immoral behavior. We would like to pretend for a moment that we are all miles away from living next door to or, heaven forbid, being people like those we angrily impose justice upon. We stay angry at any perceived threat that could change our world for the worse, and to prevent someone....anyone... from threatening what we have worked so hard for. We make justice a priority...to protect the American way, our way.

It is a question that advocates for the poor face everyday. Americans will help some, as long as it seems fair and in line with what our expectations are for ourselves and our fellow Americans. We'll support programs that will pay an electric bill but not a month's rent, or pay for some pre-approved medical care for innocent kids but restrict access to care for adults because they should be more responsible. After all, what incentive will they have if we give them everything for free?

How could we possibly keep people in line with forgiveness? Forgiving people would cost us way too much...right?

My professor shared this story:

Visiting all the churches in the area, Robynn had a sense of what she was walking into. After all, this was a fairly rural town. So she decided to attend to the local Protestant church and start visiting Sunday morning classes. She wanted to find a morning class that wasn't afraid to talk about the reality of social issues.

As a sociology professor, she was used to the social justice banter between students in the classroom and among colleagues at the university where she worked. She expected a discussion that was more conservative than not, that Bible verses would be quoted and that there probably would not be complete agreement on what to do to solve these issues.

It was the Sunday after Casey Anthony was acquitted for murdering her 2 year old daughter. There were so many pieces of evidence to support a guilty verdict:

Her daughter had been missing for a month before she reported it to the authorities.
She lied to the police about a nanny being responsible for kidnapping her child.
She owned a roll of duck tape that was an exact match to the tape found placed across her daughter's mouth when they found her dead body, which just happened to be buried close to the family's home.
It was even determined that she was frequenting bars and dance clubs and entertaining her new boyfriend on a regular basis during the time her daughter was missing.

So many details with so many coincidences encouraged a firm conviction in the eyes of the public. When they announced that Casey would only be convicted of lying to the police, the public maintained their outrage even though a jury of her peers decided that, without a firm explanation of the cause of death, she could not be held responsible for the murder. Some thought that she would fall victim to the death threats against her. Many believed that she should not be allowed to get away with it.

It was surprising how many were vocal about needing justice to vindicate the death of a little girl...to set an example for others in their community. As Robynn sat in the folding chairs in the basement of this church, the topic of Casey Anthony came up.

At first, there was talk about fairness. "It wasn't fair that the little girl had to die... And how she must have suffered... And how it could happen to any of us, with a killer on the loose." Prayers for her family were offered. As passions of the church members increased, the conversation shifted from prayers for peace and healing to how "Casey will get what is coming to her. Someone should do to her what did to her daughter. After all she has done, she can't possibly make it to heaven. Amen?"

Robynn shook her head at this call for support for revenge in a church. "I know I am just visiting but.." Everyone was quiet and turned to look at the unfamiliar voice coming from the back of the room. "What about forgiveness? Where does that come in to all of this?"

"Don't you understand? She killed an innocent little girl." A man in the front row replied, astonished at Robynn's audacity to question his comments.
"Not according to our justice system. She's been acquitted." Robynn replied.
"She needs to learn a lesson." he said.
"Is that our job?" Robynn asked.
The crowd became restless.
"Can't we trust that justice was done and focus on the forgiveness part? Who are we to judge? Her child is dead. What more do you want?"
"I want her to pay for what she did until justice is served."

It was then that Robynn realized that justice was far more important to him than any level of forgiveness could be. In church or not...it does not matter whether or not Casey was guilty. As soon as the case showed signs of unfairness on Casey's part - her "bad mothering", her irresponsible drinking - a judgement was made. She was guilty regardless of the legal outcome. And society was not about to let her forget it.

So tell me where you stand on the issue of fairness, and forgiveness?
Forgiveness is great when it falls in your favor... but when it's not, don't we want to punish those who violate our code?

I'm interested to hear your thoughts.

Religion Census - 2010

2012-11-12T06:40:00.001-08:00

The latest religion census has come out, measures compiled from the 2010 census.
The census accounted for 236 varieties of religious traditions from Zoroastrianism to American Baptist. They differentiated between sects of Christianity.

The results are interesting to me. In Tarrant County, several denominations lost people: The American Baptists Association went down 72.9% from the 2000 census.Ba'hai, on the other hand, gained 32% with 1 fewer congregation overall, but a gain in membership.
The Catholic church picked up 34,000 people in Tarrant County, and Mormons picked up almost 10,000. Muslims gained 25,000 followers as well.

If you're interested in this sort of thing, I encourage you to check out the data! Here's a Summary.
And here is the link for the whole report!

apple trees are strong

2012-11-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

I had a dream. (This is a common occurrence.)

In my dream, I was near my home, in a safe place. I was driving a small vehicle – like an ATV or tractor – and I drove around to the back of my property.

Behind my home there was an apple tree blooming – the pink petals raining down on the ground, growing wild against a fence. The beauty of it broke my heart and healed it with joy.

As I looked at the ground, I saw tarantulas coming out of dark holes and for a second I was afraid – there were several of them, and I was afraid of their hairy backs and painful venom... But as I drove under the tree, the velvet petals of the flowers brushing my cheeks, I didn't fear them. They couldn’t get me here, I was safe. I may have run over some of them, and they scattered before me, knowing I was too strong for them.

I’ve found as I venture further toward my fear and vulnerability, I find unexpected strength and beauty. My growth is stunning to me, and I’m proud of the fruit that will follow the pink blooms. Apple trees are strong and wise...I hope I’m a little like my apple tree.

Source

storytelling

2012-11-08T06:40:00.001-08:00

Image courtesy of Jill Clardy

"So I dressed myself in a sacred manner, and I went among the people who were standing around the withered tree.

Good Thunder, who was a relative of my father and later married my mother, put his arms around me...and...he offered up a prayer for me. He said: "Father, great Spirit, behold this boy! Your ways he shall see!"

Then be began to cry....I raised my face up to keep [the tears] back, but they came out just the same. I cried with my whole heart, and while I cried I thought of my people in despair. I thought of my vision and how it was promised me that my people would have a place on this earth where they could be happy every day.

I thought of them on the wrong road now, but maybe they could be brought back into the hoop again and to the good road.... I danced....By now I was crazy to kill, and I said to Protector: "Help me on my horse! Let me go over there. It is a good day to die, so I will go over there!" But Protector said: "No....Your people need you. There may be a better day to die"."

Black Elk Speaks, 1932, by John G Neihardt

Storytelling and truth are interconnected and it is with the utmost trust that I receive the tales from those who have walked a different path. Share with me your story. I will hold it gently with my heart. Ours will be a sacred space.

the end is near - a case for the zombie apocalypse

2012-11-07T08:55:00.004-08:00

In case you were wondering, it’s pretty much fact that we’ve reached the end times. I mean, if you believe the ~~reactionist super Conservative end-times fanatics~~ Bible. There are 6 signs Jesus gave, 2 signs by Paul, and 5-ish (possibly 11) more signs from other prophets in the Bible for how we can recognize the end of days and impending approach of either the Rapture (if you’re in that camp) or the Tribulation (if you’re in the zombie camp).

In Matthew24:3 Jesus was asked, "Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign of your coming, and of the end of the age?" Jesus told his apostles to look for the following signs prior to his second coming and the end of the age:

People who come in his name saying ‘I am Christ’ and misleading many. (Matt 24:5)
Proof of this happening: Nation of Yaweh. Granted, this was like 2 decades ago, but still. Also, the Branch Davidians and this homeless guy I met a couple months ago.
Wars & Rumors of Wars (Matt 24:6)
When, in the past 2000 years has there NOT been wars and rumors of wars?
Famines and… (Matt 24:7)
Earthquakes
Check and check.
Tribulations (Matt 24:8-9)
“Tribulations” is a fancy word for “trouble and suffering.” Again, since people have inhabited this planet, when has their NOT been trouble and suffering? I guess in the garden. But I think it’s safe to go ahead and check “yes” to tribulations.
The Gospel (of Jesus) will be preached throughout the world
Thanks to Al Gore and the World Wide Web, this is a fact. Plus, the Mormons are helping out with this a lot.
Godlessness (2 Tim 3:1-5,7)
This is defined by Paul as “selfishness, money-loving, arrogant, disobedient, ungrateful, unholy, loveless, lack of compassion, gossiping, treacherous, reckless, conceited, hedonistic” people (specifically men) In other words, "being human.".
Falling away from the faith (apostasy) (1 Tim 4:1-3)
The scriptural definition of this is actually very interesting to me: “By means of the hypocrisy of liars seared in their own conscience as with a branding iron, men who forbid marriage and advocate abstaining from foods which God has created to be gratefully shared in by those who believe and know the truth." So, in reality, this year is taking us a step back from the apocalypse. Men are approving marriage (in 2 states) AND men are approving foods which God created!
Existence of a 2 million man army in the east (Rev 9:16)
Revelations DOES specify that these are “horsemen”… so I’m not sure where to go with that.
A Fourth Kingdom: Daniel 2:40-43 – “Then there will be a fourth kingdom as strong as iron; inasmuch as iron crushes and shatters all things, so like iron that breaks in pieces, it will crush and break all these in pieces. And in that you saw the feet and toes, partly of potter's clay and partly of iron, it will be a divided kingdom; but it will have the toughness of iron, and partly of pottery, so some of the kingdom will be strong and part of it will be brittle. And in that you saw the iron mixed with clay, they will combine with one another in the seed of men; but they will not adhere to one another, even as iron does not combine with pottery."
Now, a lot of people think this means the Roman Empire. I disagree. It seems pretty obvious to me that a kingdom who “crushes and shatters all things”, “divided”, “strong and partly brittle”, and an inability to get along (or “adhere to one another”) – this is all descriptive of my good ol’ USA. So I’m going to check off #10.
Returning to the people a pure language (Zephaniah 3:9)
While most theologians think this means Hebrew returning to Jews, the truth is they are wrong and I am right. What language is more pure than emotion? And what communicates emotion better than Music? Need Proof? Check out this. See? Universal.
The rise of Gog and Magog. “After many days you will be summoned and in latter years you will come into the land that is restored from the sword…and they are living securely, all of them.” (Ezekiel 38:2, 4, 8).
I had to do a little digging, but I think Gog and the land of Magog are present day Russia. I could be wrong. But if I’m right, we’re a long way off from this. I mean, come on. Russia has a long way to go before they are "restored from the sword."
The MARK of the BEAST (Rev 13:16-17)
I don’t know about you, but this was a source of nightmares and terror for me growing up. I was certain that we would all be stamped with 666. Now I’m pretty sure I was wrong, but the mark of the beast still stands – “free men and slaves will be given a mark on their right hand or on their forehead and no one will be able to buy or sell except the one who has the mark.” I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that the mark of the beast is this:

Bottom line: rest assured, friends, we're no closer to the zombie apocalypse than we were 2000 years ago. Except with credit cards. Everyone should be prepared, but I don't think it's necessary to stockpile bayonets.But... just in case...

Thus sayeth Joni.

Home

2012-11-06T05:42:00.001-08:00

Source

Hold on, to me as we go

As we roll down this unfamiliar road

And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home.

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

"Home" by Phillip Phillips

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/HoRkntoHkIE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

she's gone off the reservation...who knows what will happen now!

2012-11-05T12:27:00.003-08:00

Source

When I started this religious journey, I wanted to connect with God. I thought my idea of God was all wrong, and I was right. In typical Joni fashion, I drew a clear roadmap with destinations and directions. In typical Joni fashion, I followed that map to the T, stopping at all my pre-determined points… until I ran out of gas/saw something shiney. The truth is, I love this project. I love religion! (gasp!!) And I love God. But what I really, truly love is hearing the stories. The stories are what ignite my passion, the stories are what move me to tears, the stories are what distracted me from my plans. I struggled for a time with the fact that the stories weren't fitting in categories, they weren’t matching my master plan, they were off the beaten path.

A bigger struggle was the fact that as I heard more stories, I saw more lives, connected to each other, part of something bigger – I saw tribes emerging from my stories and something within me longed for a tribe of my own.

About a year ago, I felt a deep need to reconnect with my ancestral people. I have a small portion of Native American blood running through my veins and I wanted to connect with my people in some way. I determined to seek them out and meet them, to see if maybe there was a connection between us. I dragged my sweetheart out of the house one Saturday morning, declaring that we were going to Oklahoma to “Find my people.” An ill-planned scheme, as when we arrived, I determined that my people did not have a reservation (clearly, this was available information on the internet, I just chose not to look for it)! The Choctaw people are scattered, a nation without borders, a nation without a reservation, scattered all over the United States. I was disappointed, but my disappointment ebbed as I stepped barefoot into the Red River on my way home, feeling the icy water rush over my feet, the current connecting me to Earth, to other bodies of water, to something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. Since that time, my spirit has been in unrest. I want so much a place where I belong, a people to call my own, but I have not yet found that spiritual place, and I wonder if my tribe is scattered.

Source

Beginning now, I am turning a new leaf over in my religious study. I am returning to my passion – hearing and recording the stories of the people I meet. But there are more and more people who are finding God in unlikely places – outside of places of worship, in nature, in love, in relationship and in community. I want to talk to them. My nomadic heart is wandering back out onto the road, but this time I have no map… it will be an adventure.

To share your story with me, please email me! jonikmartin1@gmail.com

on polygamy ((or)) when to call it quits in a marriage

2012-10-29T13:16:00.001-07:00

For a lifetime, it seems, I’ve been polygamous. I have been married (or not-married, but with a marriage commitment) to a man for the past 15 years, mostly. That’s roughly my entire adult life.

I’ve ALSO been in an on-again-off-again relationship with the Divine (aka God). I find that both the human marriage and the divine marriage are better when surrounded by community. I haven’t had a very difficult time finding community in my life until recently, because I shared common beliefs with others in my circle. I could go to any number of Christian churches and find a whole passel of people who believed exactly (or at least mostly) what I believed, who were also in relationship with this Divine Being.

So...it was like we were all sister-wives in a giant polygamous marriage with God.
And like sister-wives, we were married to God and to each other. But what happens when you have irreconcilable differences with your sister-wives, and you realize that God isn’t who everyone says he is, and the relationship begins to take on a different aspect to you?

It’s not that you don’t want to share your husband with them, it’s more that they are so differently-minded, it’s impossible to be yourself around them anymore. They want to wear prairie dresses, and you just discovered leather and spandex!

And what happens when what you thought was just a difference of opinion turns out to be a huge deal, and they want to force you back into that prairie dress, but you’re like “hell no!”
And then they say “we don’t say ‘hell’ in this house!”
and you’re all “But… but! I don’t LIKE prairie dresses! And I don’t like the fact that you think everyone should wear them! Because some people (me) like LEATHER ! and SPANDEX ! and, on occasion, POLYESTER!”
And they say, “Well, I’m sorry, but you need to wear prairie dresses when you’re around us. We don’t care as much what you do on the outside.”

...And for a while, that works, you just slip your prairie dress on over your leather… then one day your prairie dress gets a huge hole in it, and you don’t want to invest in another one, so you just stop. And the other sister-wives are so bent out of shape over this that it really affects your relationship with your husband (God). And the truth is, you just wish you could find those other sister-wives God keeps somewhere else, because, rumor has it, they wear leather, too, sometimes, but you’re not sure where to go looking, or if you might end up in the hands of the wrong polygamists?

So, this is the struggle I’m faced with. I have been a Christian my whole life, and for lack of a better word, I still AM a Christian. But I don’t fit in with Christians anymore because… I’m kind of a liberal. And in Texas, liberal = heathen.

So I’ve been at my great church, listening in from the sidelines, avoiding deep conversations with people, and generally not engaging in relationships because when I try, people look at me like I’m from outerspace and begin babbling Christianese at me like “grace-filled… atonement… demon possession… relationship… Jesus Christ…” with a slightly wild look in their eye, like they need to get away before I infect them with my leather-wearing disease.

I’ve thought long and hard about what to do. I tried a couple of Unitarian churches, I’ve tried almost every denomination of Christian available in the DFW area, I tried Mormon church, and even considered other religions as an option, but nothing seems to fit! I’m wondering if maybe I’ll have to go to monogamy, but I don’t see how my relationship with God can be the same if I’m not surrounded by others.

This is the problem with questions: sometimes, they alienate you from everyone. And sometimes, they open doors that can’t be closed. And it leaves you standing on doorsteps in the rain looking at the warmth and light inside, and wishing you had a home.

So how do you do it? How do you reconcile your core beliefs (which are, at times, diametrically opposed to the core beliefs of those who you once called “sister”) with your desire to have a home and a place to belong, a place that lets you ask questions and wear leather?

Hindu Holidays!

2012-10-15T06:45:00.003-07:00

It's October, and that means it's the Hindu Holiday season! Last year we had the pleasure of participating in Diwali with some Hindu friends, and it was such a treat! This morning Huff Post had an article outlining the Hindu Holiday Season that I thought I would share!

Hindu Holiday Season 2012: A Simple Guide
Posted: 10/15/2012 8:03 am by Mishri Bhatia @ Huffington Post
As Fall approaches, Hindus are gearing up for their Holiday Season, which is celebrated in October and November. Each year, India comes alive for a month filled with Hindu festivals, rituals and celebration. It's the most auspicious time of the year! Due to the various sects of Hinduism and the range of geographical and cultural traditions, Hindu Holidays are celebrated differently throughout the country.

This article highlights some of the more commonly-known variations of the festivals, but it definitely doesn't cover them all. The Hindu festival season begins with Navratri, followed by Dussehra and culminates with Diwali. Navratri Navratri is known to be one of the most colorful festivals in India, and is most popular in the state of Gujurat. Navratri, which means "nine nights" in Sanskrit, is a nine-day festival that celebrates the Goddess Shakti, also known as the "the divine mother," and her three avatars: Durga, Laxmi and Saraswati. Navratri is also a celebration of the harvest season. The first three nights are dedicated to worshipping the Goddess Durga, the goddess of power; the next three nights are dedicated to worshipping the Goddess Laxmi, the goddess of wealth; and the final three nights are dedicated to worshipping the Goddess Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge and wisdom. Below is a description of how Navratri is celebrated in some parts of Gujurat:

For nine nights, men, women and children dress up in brightly colored clothing and perform the characteristic devotional dances of Navratri known as Garba and Raas. Dancers begin by performing garba, which is characterized by intricate circular formations that represent the lotus and other auspicious symbols.

Men and women dressed in traditional clothes perform Garba to
celebrate Navratri in Gujurat, India. Wikimedia Commons

Men, women and children dance gracefully in a circle around statues or idols of the Divine Mother. Throughout the night, the music increases in pace and rhythm.
Garba is then followed by Raas, one of the most impressive and fun folk dances in India. The origin of Raas dates back to the life of Lord Krishna and is commonly known as Krishna's "playful" dance. During Raas, dancers line up in two rows facing each other and dance with sticks in their hands known as dandiyas. Each person dances with a partner (the person they are facing), hitting their dandiyas together while performing synchronized footwork. The level of complexity of the dance varies based on the dancer's skill level. Raas is then followed by Aarti, a worshipping ritual in honor of the Goddess Shakti. Aarti is a ritual in which devotees sing a devotional song in praise of the deity, while circling a large plate made of silver around a statue or idol of the god or goddess. Generally, the plate contains a diya, or oil lamp and may also have flowers and incense. The flame of the diya is said to absorb the deity's blessing during aarti. Once the aarti is finished, devotees cup their hands around the flame and raise their palms to their forward to take the deity's blessing. This routine of Garba, Raas and Aarti is performed each night. It is important to remember that even within Gujurat there exists cultural variation, so some people may not take part in every tradition or ritual listed here. During Navratri, sweets are prepared in honor of the Divine Mother, and many also observe a fast for introspection and purification. This year, Navratri starts on October 16th and continues and ends on October 23rd.

Dussehra
The day after Navratri is known as Dussehra or Vijayadashmi, a celebration of the victory of good over evil. Dussehra commemorates the defeat of the demon king Ravana by Lord Rama and the defeat of Mahishasura by the Goddess Durga in Hindu mythology. In parts of northern India, Dussehra is celebrated by burning effigies of Ravana in huge bonfires. Hindus see this ritual as a symbol of the burning of evil and sin within themselves. Theatrical plays and dances that depict the life of Rama, known as Ramlila, are also performed on Dussehra. Generally, Ramlila is a reenactment of Ravana's defeat by Lord Rama.

A man dressed to play the part of Hanuman, an avatar of Lord Shiva and a devotee of Rama, for Ramalila. Ramalila is a reenactment of Ravana's defeat by Lord Rama and is generally performed on Dussehra across the country. Wikimedia Commons

In parts of Southern India, the streets are filled with large processions of the Goddess Chamundeshwari (another form of Shakti) mounted on beautifully decorated elephants. Dussehra is also considered a good day to worship household and work tools such as books, cars and computers. Many Hindus think of Dussehra as an auspicious day to start a new business. This year, Dussehra falls on October 24th.

Diwali
Diwali, also known as Deepawali, is one of the most well-known Hindu holidays around the world. For many people outside of India, it is commonly referred to as the "festival of lights." Diwali continues the celebration of the victory of good over evil. In northern India, Diwali commemorates the return of Lord Rama, along with his wife Sita and his brother Lakshmana, from is his 14-year exile. According to the myth, in celebration of Rama's return, the people of Ayodhya--Rama's village--lit a path for him with diyas. In India, the lighting of the diya represents the illumination of knowledge, and separation from ignorance. To honor this day, Hindus adorn their temples and homes with beautifully decorated diyas, lights and rangoli--intricate designs made on the floors of living rooms and courtyards with brightly colored four, rice or sand. Diyas are also set afloat in rivers, and fireworks light up the night sky. Hindus celebrate Diwali with family gatherings, special snacks and sweets, bonfires, prayer and card games.

A rangoli, an intricate design made of brightly colored flour, rice or sand, and Diyas, oil lamps, are arranged on the floor of this Hindu home to celebrate Diwali. Wikimedia Commons

Because Diwali is a celebration of wealth and prosperity, many Hindus wear new clothes on Diwali, and children are often given money. Diwali is also considered an auspicious day to make big purchases. Although several Hindus only celebrate Diwali on one day, some celebrate it as a five day festival, with each day signifying something different:

Dhanteras - Dhanteras marks the first day of Diwali celebrations. On this day, diyas are lit around the house and kept burning all night, new clothes are adorned and houses are decorated with colorful rangolis and adornments. Many people choose to make big purchases on Dhanteras, especially in the form of precious metal, as it is considered good luck.
Nakra Chaturdashi/Choti Diwali/Kali Chaudas - The second day of Diwali is dedicated to the Goddess Shakti or Maha Kali. On Nakra Chaturdashi, Hindus focus on eliminating evil from their lives and praying to Maha Kali for strength and protection.
Diwali/Lakshmi Puja - The third day is what people refer to as Diwali--it is the most celebrated around the country. On Diwali, families get together and worship the Goddess Laxmi--the goddess of wealth--and pray for prosperity. Snacks and sweets are prepared and offered to Laxmi, complemented by prayer and devotional songs.
Bali Pratipada/Govardhan puja/Gudi Padwa/Annakoot - For some, this day signifies the first day of the Hindu New Year. For others, it is a day to celebrate Lord Krishna, an avatar of the "Great Preserver," Vishnu. Many people have feasts and offer food to Lord Krishna along with prayer and aarti. Statues and idols of the deity are adorned with garlands and jewels.
Yama Dvitiya/ Bhai Dooj - The final day of diwali is known as Yama Dvitiya or Bhai Dooj, and is a celebration of the bond between brothers and sisters. On this day, sisters pray for the long, healthy and happy lives of their brothers. Generally, sisters invite their brothers to their home for a meal consisting of their favorite foods. Sisters then perform aarti for their brothers and apply vermillion powder on their forehead; the mark made by the vermillion powder is known as a tilak. In return, brothers often give their sisters gifts. Bhai Dooj signifies the vow brothers make to protect their sisters.

This year, Diwali begins on November 13th.

Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mishri-bhatia/a-simple-guide-to-the-hin_b_1930805.html?view=print&comm_ref=false

Repost: Living with Heart

2012-09-26T13:14:00.001-07:00

It is nearing the one-year anniversary of the loss of a wonderful person, Josh Canal. I know the flowers stop coming, the friends continue on with lives and births, the memory grows more distant, and people don't always remember. Time has a way of erasing things. But for those who knew him well, and especially those who loved him as their own - his wife, Pam, his parents, Joe & Becky, his brothers, his close friends - that loss will always be felt, and the anniversary of his loss is a gentle reminder of how empty the part of the world he filled still is.This is the original post I wrote about him.

We still miss you, Josh!

What words do you say when someone you love leaves? This past 12 months, I have had more touches with death around me than ever before. My father-in-law, my grandmother, and last weekend, my friend, Josh.

Josh was bright. When he entered a room, the lights actually burned brighter, trying to match his will and his courage.

Josh was born with a heart condition that made the doctors shake their heads and say "no" alot to him: They all said he wouldn't run, he wouldn't play sports, he wouldn't live to see adulthood or get married. Josh didn't let that stop him, though... proving doctors wrong was one of his chief joys.

I remember growing up when he would stay over at my house and play with my brothers. He and his brother Caleb were my brothers' Chad and John's best friends. The four Amigos. They were quite the muskateers. And they always annoyed the hell out of me. :)

Josh had so much will and vibrance, always laughing riotiously; as a cool pre-teen, I had no patience for their silliness...but you couldn't help but laugh along (even if you also were rolling your eyes) when they were cracking up over something.

Josh's will propelled him through boyscouts; I remember him racing cars with my brothers at the pinewood derby, and playing on the huge lot in front
of our church, his shirt tail perpetually untucked.

As I was mentally thumbing through the images in my head of Tyler and growing up, Josh is infused in the memories; he seemed to be everywhere, because all of our lives were so interwoven with church. His dad was the pastor, my dad was the worship leader, us kids were at church everytime the doors were open and Josh - he was always there, being willful and determined and never letting the word "no" stop him. Always laughing at my brother's stupid jokes.
As I grew older, I began to see the courage. Not just the courage of Josh, who, somehow against all odds, refused to acknowledge his disability. But I also began to see the courage of Joe and Becky, his parents. Now that I'm a mother myself, I see how much courage it took for them to let him speed ahead, trying everything in life and succeeding.

My impulse, as a mother, would be to clutch him near, pray the days pass slowly, protect him from every little thing that came near, but in doing that I would have "protected" him from living. Becky let her son try: Cub scouts, soccer, even becoming a paramedic, Josh plowed ahead in life.

Josh and Pam's wedding

I remember when Chad came back from Iraq. I had invited Josh to a homecoming and birthday party, since he was Chad's best friend, but I thought he was two hours away and probably wouldn't make it. Of course, he showed up, with his entourage in tow. He was always the main guy. And in that entourage, was Pam, serene and beautiful, and obviously in love with him. When I met her, I saw courage. I saw that she loved him with abandon and was courageous enough to put her heart out there. I wondered at that courage.

We all grew up. We all got married. Some of us started having kids. Chad's firstborn he named Joshua, after his friend. Its a good name. Joshua the fearless. Joshua the fighter. Joshua, who seems to have selective hearing when it comes to the word "no". It seems my nephew takes after his namesake in more ways than one.

Josh was the guy who made people smile and laugh and live a little less fearfully.
Because of his courage
and his press-on attitude,
He not only believed anything was possible, he made you believe it too.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in Josh's hospital room at UT Southwestern telling Josh he looked too healthy to be sitting in a hospital bed and giggling at his impressions of the idiots on "Take the Money and Run" (a game show).

Two weeks ago, the room was lit up. Every nurse that walked past his open door stuck her head in and laughed at his jokes.

Two weeks ago, I heard him telling the lab technician that he would just take his own blood if the tech couldn't hit a vein.

He was lighthearted and funny and so kind to everyone. We laughed as we watched Japanese extreme women's strength competitions. And he was HERE. Ever vibrant, loud, funny and patient. I was there, better for having him in my life.

Thank you, Josh, for living and for showing the rest of us how life was meant to be lived. You will be missed.

Post Script:
The local TV station in Tyler had done many stories on Josh over the years, and they also did a story about his passing. Its a good story. He was a good man. See the video here: http://www.kltv.com/story/15618389/east-texans-heart-legacy-will-live-on-through-others?autoStart=true&topVideoCatNo=default&clipId=6318543

Good News Monday

2012-09-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Shared public spaces with shared dreams and open hearts? What a beautiful world that would be.

Good News Monday!

2012-08-20T05:52:00.001-07:00

I have fallen in love with Caroline Schmitt's photography. Since I'm subscribed to her blog, I get these amazing infusions of GOOD to make my week beautiful. I particularly liked this picture. We are indeed ALL ONE.
You can find her blog here: http://iwilltellyouthewholestory.com/2012/08/20/we-stood-steady-as-the-stars-in-the-woods-so-happy-hearted-and-the-warmth-rang-true-inside-these-bones/

We stood
Steady as the stars in the woods
So happy-hearted
And the warmth rang true inside these bones
We grow, grow, steady as the morning
We grow, grow older still
We grow, grow, happy as a new dawn
We grow, grow, older still
We grow, grow, steady as the flowers
We grow, grow, older still
(Ben Howard)