Muladhara Gypsy

Life & Death, but not real love

2020-04-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

I finally told the world, a few months ago in our custody hearing that I left my children’s father after he detailed his fantasy of seeing a noose around my neck. Today he showed up to get our children wearing a shirt that said “Mountains, coffee & Christy make me feel less murdery.”

Christy is his fiancée.

Open letter to those who love the deeply troubled.

I get it. There is not a high in this world that compares to loving somebody who can take your emotional temperature and in an instant feed you distractions and manipulations that anchor in the very core of your being.

They seem so harmless, and it feels so all consuming to get wrapped up in their constant cycle of victim, rescuer and persecutor. They usually talk like a victim, until they rescue you from the mundane you had thought was bliss. The illusion is that you are just what they need to get back on their feet. The illusion is that your life if better with them in it.

You are the best thing that ever happened to them- until you try to step out of that role. Till you disagree with them. Till you tell them “no.” Till you have a need they can’t fill. Till that need is a little space between them and you. Till that need is to rescue every part of yourself you have lost in the relationship with them.

When you try to step away, try find space, find yourself- that is when you stop being the best thing that ever happened to them. That’s when you become the greatest villain in their life- and they become the nightmare you can not wake up from.

I get that they are addictive. I get why you haven’t walked away yet. I get that the good feels really, really good.

You know, deep down in you being, that the when it turns bad (and you know it will), that the extreme high will only be matched with the shattering that comes when every anchor is ripped out of your soul.

From pieces of your broken, shattered past will emerge a newer, stronger, wiser and more resilient version of yourself ready to face this life (or the next) with the wisdom that only comes from having lived with the darker side of troubled.

2018-12-11T13:15:00.002-08:00

Life, peace, health and happiness

can be as simple as turning from chaos and walking the light.

A Home Birth Story: Part IV

2017-07-06T12:20:00.002-07:00

It’s taken me years to write this story. You can scroll back to the earlier birth stories on this blog for context:

1:01 p.m.

Aunt Bea walked in. On her scanner, she had heard dispatch send an ambulance to our unresponsive baby and she made the ½ mile drive to my parent’s house. Having this strong southern woman a few feet away was empowering beyond measure. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. In her eight decades of life, she helped bring hundred of piglets, calves and other critters into this world. She was my closest neighbor and one of my dearest friends as a child. Not too long past, I had checked a day old voice message from my dad saying that Aunt Bea’s son had passed. I left work and drove the 1200 miles straight from Colorado to my hometown, walking in the funeral home 22 minutes before the service started - just in time to give Aunt Bea a hug before their Church of Christ preacher said his last words over her youngest son's lifeless body. Now my girlhood hero stood by my bed as I held my eldest skin-to-skin above my heart.

The paramedics crashed into the room with the clumsiest ambulance bed I had ever seen. I clung to my freshly birthed baby. Her heart had started beating again and she had finally started breathing on her own. She was silence and completely without movement, faintly sucking in the oxygen rich air cupped to her face. The paramedic did a quick check and then pointed to the gurney they wanted to strap her to. They couldn’t lovingly carry her to the ambulance. They couldn’t hold her during the 45-minute ride to the hospital. Policy. They offered to strap my freshly recovered-from-the-dead baby to a six-foot gurney, carry that gurney down the front steps promising I could meet up with her sometime later at the hospital – unless, of course, I also needed medical attention. If I needed medical attention, I could ride with her – even carry her.

“I would like to be treated at the hospital,” I said, still holding Baby C.

The paramedics offered to carry both of us on the gurney cart, down the twelve steps and into the back of the ambulance. I refused that scary offer. I stood up, and walked away out of the room. The evidence of a traumatic birth on the bed behind me, I walked out the door and down the steps to the waiting ambulance. The paramedics helped us get settled.

The road was just as rocky and bumpy leaving mom’s house as it had been getting there. The entire trip I waited for my baby to whimper, to cry, or to at least move. One time she moved a leg ever so slightly; it was the tiniest of kicks! My husband was allowed to sit in the front seat of the ambulance. At the hospital they immediately put her under a heating lamp and started tests and IVs. Finally, she cried. It was the most blessed sound in the world. Soon, they transferred her to a cooling blanket cooling her core temperature in hopes of stopping/reducing her oxygen deprived brain damaged. Then they transferred her to another hospital, a research hospital and one of the best in the region.

Meanwhile, I was on a cold hospital bed, staring at the florescent lights. My husband and sister kept bringing me videos of my baby girl a few doors down. I was examined, stitched and then released to spend time by the incubator. Spread eagle, having my vaginal tears stitched closed before a gaggle of nurses talking about vajazzling while the fruit of my womb fought for her life somewhere out of sight was the most painful experience of my life.

After 72 hours of cooling, our HIE (Hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy) baby was brought back to the warm world. She latched on and nursed like her life depended on it. Over the next week, as I shipped soap orders from the hospital room, I began to develop a new appreciation for being a self-employed mom. Ten days after her birth, she was released from the hospital, with a stern warning that she would never, ever be like other children... On the ride home, as we turned onto our road, my husband slowed the car and rolled down all the windows. Baby C opened her mouth gently tasting pure, fresh, country air for the first time in her little life.

She has grown and developed beautifully. She has amazed the doctors and shows every sign of being perfectly healthy. She is incredibly strong willed, and can cry with the best of them.

At lot of people look at me with my little babies and say something like, “Don’t you wish you could keep them from growing up so fast?” No. I am thankful that my daughter is growing. I almost had a baby that stayed small forever. Instead she is growing, changing and crying every day.

I am one of the lucky moms. Father God, my midwife mother, assistant Rebecca, CPR and a slew of highly skilled and trained medical professional saved our daughter's life.

We are blessed. She lives!

Packaging & Planet Earth

2017-04-22T22:47:00.004-07:00

Once upon a time, just the other day, there lived a man whose name was Donald Trump. This man became president of the United States of America. President Trump awaked a lot of hostility during his presidential campaign. Some citizens wondered why he was in office, others wondered how, but everyone waited to see what President Trump’s legacy would be.

Meanwhile, five gyres where turning in the oceans of planet earth- five giant, swirling currents of water turning, churning together a powerful swirl.

One day in 1997 Captain Charles Moore and his crew decided to cross the north pacific gyre located between Japan and Hawaii. He was surprised to find an enormous collection of partially broken plastic floating in the ocean like noodles in a soup. A layer of plastic soup ranging from 9-100 feed stretches across the ocean covering an area at least twice the size of the state of Texas; the plastic (if any) that has settle on the ocean floor has not yet been mapped. Plastic accumulations on formally unpolluted beaches are accumulating.

Plastic is a man made, human generated material. We invented plastic over a century ago. Every since, we have been learning how to use it, reuse it and dispose of it.

President Trump entered office at a time when the US packaged, served and stored almost all FDA regulated food and beverage with some element of plastic. Plastic is much more complicated to recycle than glass, and about 94% (Source??) of the plastic produced every year is used only once. A lot of this plastic has accumulated over the past century. Some of it has been moved to the ocean; the rest of it is still on land.

Plastic has a relatively low melting point and is easily reshaped. It is also relatively unstable. This means that the chemicals used to make plastic contaminate food and water. Plastic lasts forever – best we can tell. It is here to stay. President Trump showed the world how to use plastic, and more importantly how not to use it. He banned new production of plastic, instigated a radical clean up program to reshape all existing plastic into a composting tunnel/sewage system that humans flushed all small particle biodegradable waste down.

By the time President Trump left office, all human waste (and packaging) was either biodegradable or recyclable… and his tunnels fed several stations that sorted compost from water. The water was pure enough to drink and the compost was a perfectly balanced growth medium for plants, which he then sold for $1.00/bag, or anyone could pick up however much they wanted for free.

The End.

Welcome to my parlour...

2017-02-26T19:16:00.002-08:00

... said the spider to the fly.

I won't take less than your love, by Tanya Tucker

https://youtu.be/A3C-PO8FmoY

Salmon Fishing in Nepal

2017-01-29T13:48:00.002-08:00

My new favorite movie.

Sidewalk Chatter

2017-01-29T13:18:00.001-08:00

If it weren't for the wind, I might have heard this from my yard:

Where is the closest 80 acres from here
i wanna drop my house in the middle of it
$$1.2 million

... and I smiled to myself, thankful for the opportunity to walk on by.

Well, that ... that and zillow is calling.

That, and everything else

2017-01-15T14:00:00.003-08:00

You haven't done much with your life, right? I mean, besides start your own business?

Me: "Right.

Well, and go to school."

That, and everything else I have ever done; it's all made me who I am.

See what I found?

2016-06-04T22:14:00.002-07:00

Facebook

2016-05-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

To: All Family, Friends, In-laws, Out-laws, Acquaintances and others

From: A brand new/postpartum mom

* Everything I thought I knew about myself, my body, my partner, my home, my life, death, love, health, breath, endurance, pain, joy, exhaustion and relief has completely and radically changed more than I ever imagined possible.

* Please be patient with me, with us,

With love,

Gina

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---- --- --- --- --- --- ---- --- ---
Someday when I have 150 million dollars and nothing better to do with it, I am going to hire the right people to run the best (or even better) facial recognition software on every single face on social media. I'll pick the luckiest dozen or so look alikes, beef up their identities, give them a country or two for the hassle,

while producing a riveting documentary designed to change the way the world views online identity, privacy and safety.

Birth Story: Conclusion

2015-07-10T16:24:00.001-07:00

There are still a few gaps in this story,
but yesterday I opened the cabinet where I keep the rice.
"Baby girl, where is that little bag of rice you were playing with?" I ask.
My daughter walked over and swung open the door to the other side of the cabinet
where she had placed the little bag of rice.

A Home Birth Story: Part III

2015-06-27T10:13:00.000-07:00

THE DELIVERY

12:31 p.m. CST

The contractions that have been coming every 2-3 minutes for over eight hours now stop. I move back to my left side, and a contraction finally joins me - along with the urge to push. “I see the head! We are having a baby!” My mom says excitedly.

12:36 p.m. CST

I move back to the reclining position – into the position that I had envisioned myself giving birth for months now. We wait for a contraction. Again, the contractions stop. Fetal heart rate drops somewhere in the 70s.

“Push the baby out,” my mom says with urgency. “But I’m not having a contraction,” I reply- amazed they could stop right now and knowing getting Baby C out immediately was critical.

“Push anyway.”

Up until this point my body has led my mind, but as the power surges disappear, the visuals fade and my mind takes the lead. I struggle into a squatting position. Ray reaches out and supports nearly all of my body weight with his arms. I choose to push.

12:38 p.m.

Crowning.

“We have meconium. Prepare the suction machine.” My mom directs Rebecca.

12:40 p.m.

Baby C is born with a gush of dark, thick meconium stained water. She is motionless, breathless, white and without a heart beat. Mom feels the completely limp, umbilical cord. Rebecca calls 911 and tells them we had a homebirth and have an unresponsive baby. Without missing a beat mother and Rebecca work on our baby. Suction. Oxygen. Chest compressions.

I lift my hands above myself and above our child, while Ray and I beseech the life force of the universe to fill our sweet baby.

Her heartbeat resumes first, and then she gasps for air. By 12:48 p.m. CST Baby C is breathing at a 60 breaths a minute with a pulse of 150 beats per minute.

At 1 p.m. the placenta was delivered and two minutes later the EMT’s banged up the front steps and through the door with a very large, very bulky ambulance bed.

To be continued...

A Home Birth Story: Part II

2015-06-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

LABOR CONTINUES

9:30 a.m. CST/10:30 EST

My mother helps me up the 12 stairs leading to the front door. In the living room, Ray and I meet Rebecca, the midwife-in-training and my mother’s assistant.

Candles dance to the soft breeze coming through the open windows while the sweet tumbling of the creek can be heard with the soft patter of raindrops. A calm joy washes over me. We have returned to my childhood home, in time to welcome our own child into the world.

Past a full array of neatly arranged emergency equipment is the bed. A vaginal exam determines that I am 4cm dilated, 90% complete and at 0 station.

Ray starts soft background music, then we roam the house so that I can sit, squat and perch on every suitable surface. Finally, I look at my mom and announce that, “I just can’t get comfortable!” My mother, a nurse of over 30 years and CPM of 15 years reminds me that having a baby is not generally a comfortable experience. So logical! I begin to work with my contractions in a brand new way. No longer concerned with comfort, I decide to follow my body through the incredible journey of birth.

The end of each contraction prompts me to change positions. Lying on my right side, left side, squatting by the bed, by the couch, sitting on the birth ball and the birth stool, soaking in the tub and resting on the bed. Ray is calmly by my side every second, applying counter pressure to my back as we anticipate the soon arrival of our firstborn child. Rebecca regularly checks the baby’s heart rate with a hand held Doppler.

My mother (who is also our midwife) is always present, supportive and watchful.

Contractions become more intense, commanding my attention. As each begins, I close my eyes. My mind returns again and again to a couple of visuals. A cervix shaped flower slowly opens petal by petal; also I imagine my cervix to be a tightly sealed vault door. The door opens, opens until the contraction eases and the image fades away. Waves of intensity build, peak and pass. I change positions and the whole process repeats itself.

Everything is peaceful and progressing. I couldn't have dreamed up a better labor.

10.55 a.m. CST

We move to the bed. Lying on my left side I feel a stutter from my core and an unmistakable urge to push.

11:10 a.m. CST

A second vaginal exam indicates that dilation is complete. The door separating our unborn child from the outside world has been unlocked. I feel the need to push, but not strongly and not with every contraction.

Labor continues. I need to move. I need water. I breathe, visualize and my husband supports me through every contraction. Rebecca monitors vitals with such diligence that I almost become annoyed, but another contraction soon carries my mind back to the world of flower petals and vault doors.

Noon CST

The baby has moved down to station +2. Contractions continue coming every 2.5 minutes. Mom says I can push at any point, but the urge to push is mild over the next several minutes. Instead of pushing, I savor the seconds of rest between contractions.

Rebecca is ever diligent with her hand held fetal heart tone Doppler. The babies heartbeat fluctuates between 140-160 the entire labor. Now as we enter the final stages of labor, the heart rate drops to around 110-120. My mom reminds us that it is not unusual for the heart rate to slightly dip at this stage of birth– indicating that the baby’s heart is responding to the stress of childbirth.

The urge to push is still sporadic and lacking intensity. I go ahead and give it a try. Mom reminds me to tuck my chin as Ray encourages me. Regardless, my body is not “into” it.

12:29 p.m. CST

Rebecca won’t stop with the Doppler! Between contractions, during contractions – she keeps sliding the cold hard plastic tool over me belly.

Fetal heart rate: 90 beats per minute.

The words hang in the air.

"Its time to get this baby out," my mom says. I know it is true. I recline back into Ray, pull my knees towards my ears and then wait for the next contraction.

To be continued....

A Home Birth Story: Part I

2015-06-20T20:19:00.001-07:00

Birth is the incredible journey parents and baby must complete before meeting.

This birth story is how our firstborn came into this world.

CAR RIDE

40 weeks and 1 day.

The day turns to night, and I am completely alone – except for occasional movement of a small child preparing to exit my womb. The near monotone promptings from the Hypnobabies Fear Clearing Session CD fill my mind, melting a smattering of tension from my soul and body.

40 weeks. Day 2 at 3:30 a.m. EST

As I feel my way through the darkness and back to my side of the bed, it vaguely occurs to me how recent my last trip to the bathroom had been. Within a half hour and a couple more potty pilgrimages, I confidently respond to my husband’s half-asleep, “Are you alright?” with those three little words:

“I’m in labor.”

I call my mom, decide that potatoes and eggs would be the perfect way to fuel the day and walk the two car lengths separating our living quarters from my soap shop. I recount inventory and packing supplies – determined that the only work related activity to occupy my next week or two would simply be to pack and ship soap orders.

Ray carries the soapboxes to the car, as well as a beautiful mess of fried potatoes and eggs. I make what I think will be a comfortable nest of pillows in the back seat.

At the end of the driveway, Ray asks if I prefer the fast route or the smooth route. I opt for the former and realize shortly thereafter that a comfortable labor will never be found along Tennessee’s back roads. I also realize that there will be no perfect breakfast for me. Contractions peak every 2.5 minutes and talking hardly seems like a priority. At a mountain high gas station I make my way from the car to the ladies room in record time- and perfectly timed between contractions. Hanging onto the metal stall door, my uterus sends a baby-birthing power surge throughout my body comparable to nothing life has ever hit me with before.

Multiple stops and 200 miles and another time-zone later, we pull to the beginning of the flood-washed rock base that two weeks early had been a smoothly packed churt road. Ray slows the car to a stop at the peak of each contraction and thus the final few miles take over half an hour.

To be continued...

Food Groups

2015-05-23T07:28:00.002-07:00

It
seems
to me, that
the most obvious
part of building a pyramid.
is that you have to start
from the bottom.

About me

2015-04-14T07:15:00.000-07:00

The rain is softy falling outside my open door as the sounds of baby coos mix with the chirping of birds. A bright spring green tries to claim the woods around our home while reds and orange persist in their beauty. Last night my husband and I cut soap together. Like it was our job. 1160 bars in less than 1 ½ hours, and it is my job. Two years and two weeks ago in Jackson, Mississippi I turned east instead of north and drove right into this life that I love. Self-employed. Wife. Mother. Aspiring minimalist.

I value good people, harmonic music and healthy food.
I treasure meaningful words and meaningful silence.

Air amazes me. So big it covers the world yet small enough to be in every single aerobic cell. So important. So, life! So dynamic. This air can be pouring through my heart one second. Moments later the exact same air could be saturating your brain… and shortly thereafter off-gassed by a tulip popular.

The single strongest driving force in my life is my insatiable need for perspective.

Hooray, Hooray!

2014-12-17T11:23:00.001-08:00

Here's to free will,

playing a good hand,

and the gears that move the capitalist machine.

Progress.

Healthy

2014-08-15T06:22:00.003-07:00

“If someone wishes for good health, one must first ask oneself if he is ready to do away with the reasons for his illness. Only then is it possible to help him.” ~ Hippocrates

Behind the Mask

2014-07-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

Eight weeks ago, as I felt my growing child dancing in the womb, I wanted to write this post. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Since then, cancer has taken two of my cousins in an early grave. Jack Daniels (my dog) disappeared. Our daughter’s heart stopped as she passed through the birth canal just two days before my grandmother breathed her last breath, and today my great aunt was laid to rest.

Now that I have felt eight more weeks of life, and now that I have seen eight more weeks of death. Now, more than ever, I want to say:

Behind the masks that we pretend to hide behind can be found a delicate connection to the omnipotent life force of the universe. This connection is so pure and so innocent that it invigorates our will, feeds our soul and brings us into being. The other force, the force of death is also present. The balance between these two forces is ever changing and progressing until there is no balance left in us at all. Every choice we make and every tiny thing outside of our control affects our life, the lives of those around us, and the memory we leave behind when our bodies return to dust.

Each moment is the product of the million choices that brought us to the place we are and the billion factors we will never see –
and each moment only happens once.

So, if you’re able... pause. If you will... think. If you can... choose!

Choose to study the dogwood blossoms. Choose to smell the honeysuckle. Choose to pick wild blackberries. Choose to take care of yourself. Choose to hurt not the earth. Choose beauty. Choose love. Choose family. Choose to kiss your husband. Choose to hold hands. Choose to rock your babies. Choose to walk with your dog. Choose to call your friends. Choose to smile. Choose music. Choose fresh air.

More than anything else, choose the good, the beautiful and the pure. Behind your masks, choose to be the wonderful in this fleeting existence we call life –
until you know longer have the choice.

SHINE!

2014-03-12T13:42:00.003-07:00

Shine by Anna Nalick

Oh, the night makes you a star
And it holds you cold in its arms
You're the one to whom nobody verses I love you
Unless you say it first
So you lie there holding your breath
And it's strange how soon you forget
That you're like stars
They only show up when it's dark
Cause they don't know their worth

And I think you need
To stop following misery's lead
Shine away, shine away, shine away

Isn't it time you got over
How fragile you are
We're all wait-
Waiting on your supernova
Cause that's who you are
And you've only begun to shine

There are times when
The poets and porn stars align and
You won't know who to believe in
Well that's a good time to be leavin'
And the past, it knocks on your door
And throws stones at your window at 4 in the morning
Well maybe he thinks it's romantic
He's crazy but you knew that before

And I think you need
To stop following misery's lead
Shine away, shine away, shine away

Isn't it time you got over
How fragile you are
We're all wait-
Waiting on your supernova
Cause that's who you are
And you've only begun to shine

Yea you've only begun to shine
Won't you shine, shine, shine
Shine over shadow, oh oh
Shine, shine, shine
Shine over shadow, oh oh
Shine, shine, shine, shine over

And I think you need
To stop following misery's lead
Shine away, shine away, shine away

Isn't it time you got over
How fragile you are
We're all wait-
Waiting on your supernova
Cause that's who you are
And you've only begun to shine

Yeah you've only begun to shine
Yeah you've only begun to shine

First World Cannibals

2014-02-16T17:04:00.005-08:00

Just so you know, there is a growing trend among American mothers to eat their own afterbirth, the placenta. You know, that organ that grows with the little human and has to be cut from the infant after birth. You know, that powerful xenobiotic filter commonly considered a waste product after childbirth. The barrier that absorbs and protects the growing fetus from the pollutants of the mothers environment (such as pesticides, carcinogens, etc) is now being revered as some sort of delicacy by "crunchy" American mothers. I guess the reason is (shock and awe) that this fleshy organ also contains nutrients… vitamins, minerals, protein – the works.

True enough. Generations of cannibals can attest to the nutritional qualities of human flesh. Makes me wonder: what is on the menu after placenta? Baby thigh sandwich?

Bible. Deuteronomy 28: 47, 53 “Because you did not serve the Lord your God with joy and a glad heart…you shall serve your enemies... then you shall eat the offspring of your own body, the flesh of your sons and of your daughters whom the Lord your God has given you.”

C’mon moms. Skip the placenta sauté, the placenta smoothie, the freeze dried aesthetically appealing placenta capsules and take a multi-vitamin

– especially if you’re breastfeeding.

Think about it. A breastfeeding infant really has no choice in their own diet. Cannibalistic or not, they take it as its served. If the mother eats the child's placenta, then breastfeeds - she is feeding her newborn baby its very own stem cells. Could it get more twisted?

Probably.

Dried placenta has long been used in Chinese medicine. Throughout the world, people have partaken of this organ to decrease pain in childbirth, hemorrhaging, depression ... the list goes on. For the most benefit a mother really should enjoy the placenta before actually delivering her child. Some mothers say they start feeling better on the very day they begin consuming human flesh and blood. Maybe the question is not "what happens once the placenta runs out" but rather "where can American placentophagic mothers find more placenta - and sooner?"

Abortion clinics.

The woman who eats, drinks or takes as a supplement the flesh, blood and stem cells of her own infant (then feeds it back to her newborn in the form of breast milk) should have no issue eating the stem cells of unrelated children. Abortion clinics have tons of placenta, cord and cord blood around - still attached to the baby and everything.

They could put those fetuses in a capsule too.

OR NOT!!!

Why go there in the first place? Why ingest human flesh and blood at all? Why train your body (or your child) to expect baby blood as some sort of delicacy?

Dear Mothers: There are so many delightful and nourishing food options in this country, I wholeheartedly propose that you keep human flesh and blood completely off of the menu and supplement list... and for the love of free will - please stop forcing autosarcophagy on your newborn babies!

Stop Being So Horrible

2014-01-28T17:24:00.001-08:00

This is a repost... and worth reading to the very last word.

If I Can't Accept You at Your Worst, Then Maybe You Should Stop Being So Horrible

by Matt Walsh

I remember the first time I was awarded the "game ball" in my Little League. I don't recall the details exactly, but I'm pretty sure my stat sheet looked something like this:

Zero RBIs, zero home runs, zero hits, zero stolen bases, zero plays made on the field, seven errors, four innings spent sitting on the bench.
Most of my team probably performed similarly, but I know we put a few points on the board, so SOMEONE must have done something notable.

Alas, that kid -- whoever he was -- got jobbed this tragic afternoon. They gave the game ball to me. You can only imagine how I felt.

That is, confused.

We capped off the season with a trophy ceremony in the local middle school auditorium. One by one, they called every team up to receive their participation awards. You played a game for a few weeks and achieved no amount of success at all! Congratulations on your mediocrity, kid! It was a plastic gold-colored figurine of a guy hitting a baseball. Ironic, really, considering I hadn't actually made contact with a ball all season.

I still have my pity-trophy, it's right up there on my pity-mantle, next to my pity-game ball and the mandatory Valentine's Day cards I only received because elementary school rules required every child to give one to every other child.

When visitors come by, I show it to them and proudly say, "Look at all of the mandatory recognition showered upon me as a matter of routine policy!"

Then my guests will often cringe and weep, and the evening ends early and uncomfortably.

See, I think all of this nonsense -- this "everybody is special, everybody gets to have a trophy, everybody gets a card, everybody gets recognition" idiocy -- can produce only two possible results, neither desirable. One, it can make perceptive, self-aware children even more embarrassed and insecure. They know that they are undeserving of these accolades, and they'd rather not be patronized.

If a severely impoverished child wore a burlap sack to school, he would be utterly humiliated if his teacher, with all good intentions, decided to award him the honor of "best dressed." That's how many kids feel when their mediocrity is put on a pedestal and treated like it's something exceptional. They aren't fooled, as much as they'd like to be.

Then there's Category 2. These kids, perhaps not equipped with the same critical thinking capacities as the first type, will eventually buy into the hype. They will look at those trophies and gold stars, unearned and undeserved, and begin to develop an inflated image of themselves. What is born from this is not confidence, but narcissism and arrogance. These are the kids in possession of the much-heralded "self-esteem." Indeed, they hold themselves in high esteem. Why? Because they are themselves. They are spectacular, beautiful, athletic, and brilliant, all by their very nature. Whatever they do is the best thing anyone has ever done, simply because it was done by them. Whoever comes in contact with them ought to be grateful for the privilege. Success and happiness is what they are due, and the entire universe is in their debt. They are the people who expect the Lord to descend from heaven and hand them a game ball and a participation trophy every day.

I'm sure you've met this type. Maybe you've voted for this type. Maybe you work with, or under, this type. Maybe, God help you, they are in your family. Maybe you've been in a relationship with them.

In fact, it seems statistically likely that you have been in a relationship with them. The divorce rate speaks for itself. Beyond that, although there aren't any statistics (as far as I'm aware) for non-married break ups, it appears obvious that we are experiencing a crisis of failed relationships at every level and in every form. People don't know how to be in relationships anymore, and I think this epidemic can be traced, at least in part, to the delusions of grandeur we instill in our little snowflakes from an early age.

Shielded from failure, insulated from criticism, covered in emotional bubble wrap, our kids are venturing out into the world with little discipline and even less humility. You can see this manifest in many arenas, but I think it's most pronounced in the way we approach relationships.

Here's one example. It's minor, probably insignificant, but it represents something quite serious. I was perusing my Facebook Newsfeed today and I came across a status that said this:

"Yea I'm a b*tch but deal with it. I wont be with anyone who cant accept all of who I am!!!"

This was a grown woman. Apparently college educated. Older than me.

It reminded me of a meme we've all seen a thousand times. It has a few variations, but it usually goes something like this:

If you can't accept me at my worst, then you don't deserve me at my best.

This is such a popular sentiment that it has its own Facebook fan page with over 150,000 "likes."

It shows up all the time on memes and illustrations like this one:

Of course, the original quote is from Marilyn Monroe. It's even more vapid and nauseating when taken in its full context:

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

Out of all the profundities ever uttered, what does it say about our society that THIS is the quote we've decided to take to heart?

It says that we need to read more books.

Also, it says that we are horrible at relationships.

Yes, it's true that, in a marriage, we must love our spouses in spite of their flaws. It's also true that we all have flaws. But it's ALSO true that only an infantile, spoiled, egotistical brat would ever treat a loved one with "her worst" and expect them to deal with it because her "best" will somehow compensate for it.

Newsflash: It's not OK to be selfish, impatient, and out of control. These traits, while common, are UNacceptable. They should not be accepted, least of all by the people you claim to love. The onus is on YOU to change your behavior and your attitude, not on them to "handle it." Are you such a gem that they should thank God for the opportunity to be emotionally abused by you, if only it earns them a chance to bask in the glow of your superiority?

Perhaps that's how you see it, but I've never met anyone quite that charming.

This philosophy is poison, and it stretches beyond one offensive quote from a 20th century Playboy Bunny. Often I read or hear people whine that they 'just want to find someone who will accept them, no matter what.' But being "accepted" should not be our relationship goal. Healthy relationships are loving, but also challenging, edifying, and even occasionally painful.

Accept. Definition: to receive with approval or favor, to agree or consent to.

Should our selfishness, impatience, and weakness preclude us from being loved? No. But should these traits be "accepted"? Should they be "received with approval or favor"? Should our loved ones "consent" to them?

No.

Big no.

Enormous, loud, screaming no.

Should we scoff at our husbands or wives or boyfriends or girlfriends and flippantly tell them to "handle it," as we behave in ways that will hurt and offend them?

No. And if you think that -- if you REALLY think that -- then you shouldn't be getting into relationships at all. You aren't ready.

Further, does our "best" (which probably isn't as great as we imagine it to be) make up for, or negate, our "worst"?

No. Your worst is your worst. Fix it. Be better. Nobody should have to put up with it. Least of all the people you love.

Love is a transformative force, and if you want to experience it you better be ready to change in every way imaginable. My wife does not "accept me," and thank God for that. She challenges me. She makes me better. In other words, she loves me.

What kind of a pathetic and dreary goal is that, anyway -- just wanting to be "accepted," tolerated, put up with? That's not why we're put on this planet. Life is not about gaining "acceptance." Life is change. It is not static and stagnant, do you really want your relationships to be?

We don't emerge into the world as eternally entitled princes and princesses. We come into it as naked, crying, helpless babies. Our job is to grow out of that condition. And that will take a lot of changing and a lot of learning about what parts of us are unsuitable and insufficient and unacceptable. Sadly, some of us are unwilling to endure that process, so we never grow, and in failing to grow we fail to live. It's a tragedy.

Don't ask anyone to "accept" the bad parts of you. Instead, strive to improve those parts. Put in the effort. Make yourself worthy of the love they've offered you.

Forget what you learned in elementary school. The only "participation trophy" you're awarded from life is death. That's the one thing we all get just for showing up. In the meantime, if you want something better, you have to earn it.

That means if you want better relationships, you have to earn them, too.

Matt Walsh writes regularly at themattwalshblog.com.

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The Princess and the Frog

2013-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

Not mine - but something that makes me smile ...

   Once upon a time, in a land far away, a beautiful, independent,
self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat, contemplating
ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted pond in a verdant
meadow near her castle. The frog hopped into the princess' lap and
said: "Elegant Lady, I was once a handsome prince, until an evil witch cast
a spell upon me. One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back
into the dapper, young prince that I am and then, my sweet, we can marry
and setup housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can
prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, and forever feel
grateful and happy doing so."
   That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on a repast of lightly
sauted frog legs seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce,
she chuckled to herself and thought:
   I don't fucking think so!!!

Will Travel

2013-11-05T05:58:00.001-08:00

I'm still a sucker
for a song that
makes me think,
makes me feel,
makes me remember
and brings me right to were I have always been.

Modern Motherhood

2013-10-30T05:25:00.000-07:00

As penned by the former chaplain of the US Senate:

The modern challenge to motherhood is the eternal challenge - that of being godly women.
The very phrase sounds strange in our ears. We never hear it now.

We hear about every other kind or women -
beautiful women,
smart women,
sophisticated women,
career women,
talented women,
divorced women,
but so seldom do we hear of a godly women - or of a godly man either, for that matter....
'The world has enough women who know how to hold their cocktails,
who have lost all their illusions,
and their faith.
The world has enough women who know how to be smart.
It needs women who are willing to be simple.
The world has enough women who know how to be brilliant.
It needs some who will be brave.

The world has enough women who are popular.
It needs more who are pure.
We need women, and men too, who would rather be morally right than socially correct.'

Peter Marshall, Mr. Jones, Meet the Master (New York: Fleming H. Revell Company pp. 154, 155.)