A bit of my beliefs for which I'll probably be burned at the stake,
But I'm sure it's not the biggest risk that I'll ever take.
I don't think Jesus was made to die by his dad;
I think people demanded his death to prove the commitment that he had.
He walked along the earth preaching joy and elation,
Instead of concentrating on the negativity in creation.
Many did not like this brash, young Jewish man
Messing with their version of earth's domination plan.
What made his words so scary to those who live in fear,
Is he changed the focus of what we should hold most dear.
He said that we are equal in the glory we were created to be.
And that after death we cease to be counted as he or she.
I believe The Light of Creation shimmered until it broke apart,
And that this Holy Light gave all creation its start.
I believe we are destined to, once again, become
Part of the light of Love that we were spun off from.
I believe we destroy this earth and each other with our greed,
Thinking that The Infinite Light and Love won't fill our need.
Like there is only a limited amount of Light and Love to go around,
So we, even in Eternity, want to grab a piece of ground.
Good parents aren't happy as long as one of their children has not;
They seek to distribute evenly every good thing that they've got.
Is our Infinite Creator any less loving than we?
Why would there be more for you and nothing left for me?
Some Christians think that salvation isn't for Muslim or Jew.
Did Our Creator not know what family each life was sent to?
Do we think there's need for more kindling for the fires of hell,
So Our Creator continues creating those who can never in Heaven dwell?
Aren't we all spun off the same Creator's energy,
The final destination, back with Our Creator to be.
If Jesus is my brother and has returned to his roots,
Won't everyone become one again in our glory suits?
All who seek Love and Kindness, it seems to me,
Are parts of salvation as it was meant to be.
Some of us see Our Creator in one manifestation,
While others see The Spirit in many parts of Creation.
So let us stop the argument of which is the true God;
All was created as part of the path to Infinity that we plod.
I'd love to see what you see, and share my vision of God with you
Eye-to-eye we'll sit, rather than sitting in a pew.
I'd like to have a lunch with you that I lovingly prepare;
It's hard to remain angry as we, our blessings, share.
So, come one and come all to my very large dining table;
Let's celebrate our visions of The Light with all that we are able.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Not a Wicked Woman
I wish The Spirit moving in me was calm and quiet;
Whenever I discuss scripture, I seem to spark a riot.
It's not that people think that my beliefs are wrong;
It's just that most like their religion with a gentler song.
I've been told by many not to share my voice,
But it seems as I get older, this is not a choice.
My daughter once said to me that's the job of a granny
To hand out opinions, of which I have so many.
Why is it for some The Spirit whispers when mine roars?
I don't seem to have an inside voice when my spirit soars.
It's very hard on babies and those who are convalescing;
To these folks, my energy doesn't feel like a blessing.
I know that most of us have been been told all our lives
To never speak of politics or the faith on which we thrive;
But the country seems to speak of almost nothing else
I simply want a more peaceful way to express myself.
There are many still thinking that a woman who is good
Will happily sit in silence while the menfolk set the mood.
I have really tried this, but it doesn't work for me;
The more I try to stifle, the more words fight to be free.
I wake up every morning and I ask the Holy Spirit
To heal my heart and my head, and control the words I spit.
It sometimes seems to work as I would like it to do.
But when passions are sparked, my words rise a decibel or two.
I know I'm not a preacher, nor an official teacher,
But I share the same Light as every creature.
And I want to shout this new knowledge in word and song
That the people who think me wicked may have always been wrong.
Whenever I discuss scripture, I seem to spark a riot.
It's not that people think that my beliefs are wrong;
It's just that most like their religion with a gentler song.
I've been told by many not to share my voice,
But it seems as I get older, this is not a choice.
My daughter once said to me that's the job of a granny
To hand out opinions, of which I have so many.
Why is it for some The Spirit whispers when mine roars?
I don't seem to have an inside voice when my spirit soars.
It's very hard on babies and those who are convalescing;
To these folks, my energy doesn't feel like a blessing.
I know that most of us have been been told all our lives
To never speak of politics or the faith on which we thrive;
But the country seems to speak of almost nothing else
I simply want a more peaceful way to express myself.
There are many still thinking that a woman who is good
Will happily sit in silence while the menfolk set the mood.
I have really tried this, but it doesn't work for me;
The more I try to stifle, the more words fight to be free.
I wake up every morning and I ask the Holy Spirit
To heal my heart and my head, and control the words I spit.
It sometimes seems to work as I would like it to do.
But when passions are sparked, my words rise a decibel or two.
I know I'm not a preacher, nor an official teacher,
But I share the same Light as every creature.
And I want to shout this new knowledge in word and song
That the people who think me wicked may have always been wrong.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Parenting Places
Now women say that when you have a babe at the breast,
Sleeping when the babe sleeps is considered best.
But back in the days when I had my first,
This was the time for a housekeeping burst.
It was important to create a castle for your man,
Cooking and cleaning til things were spic and span.
And then to be sure that the babies were quiet
When he came home, or there would be a riot.
Putting on lipstick and combing one's hair;
He had better not find you resting in a chair
If you didn't please him, he was perfectly free
To find somewhere more peaceful to be.
Now, as I sit with my recovering friend,
I remember how different things were back then.
I clean when and what's needed, but no more;
No one ever got sick from an unswept floor.
I don't know that things are necessarily better;
Some have no one home to tend their litter.
It would be nice if there were official block parents;
It could even make for good economic sense.
Any parent who was the parent in charge,
Would be enforcing the neighborhood's laws.
Now that there are many stay home "mister moms"
We would probably pay them fairly for their time.
We could even have grandpas and grandmas paid
To soothe the babies when they are afraid.
Those who haven't lost their energy yet
Could teach skills to the younger set.
This is what old time schools and churches did
Before our communities became so big.
Community schools would be perfect spaces
To create these safe parenting places.
Sleeping when the babe sleeps is considered best.
But back in the days when I had my first,
This was the time for a housekeeping burst.
It was important to create a castle for your man,
Cooking and cleaning til things were spic and span.
And then to be sure that the babies were quiet
When he came home, or there would be a riot.
Putting on lipstick and combing one's hair;
He had better not find you resting in a chair
If you didn't please him, he was perfectly free
To find somewhere more peaceful to be.
Now, as I sit with my recovering friend,
I remember how different things were back then.
I clean when and what's needed, but no more;
No one ever got sick from an unswept floor.
I don't know that things are necessarily better;
Some have no one home to tend their litter.
It would be nice if there were official block parents;
It could even make for good economic sense.
Any parent who was the parent in charge,
Would be enforcing the neighborhood's laws.
Now that there are many stay home "mister moms"
We would probably pay them fairly for their time.
We could even have grandpas and grandmas paid
To soothe the babies when they are afraid.
Those who haven't lost their energy yet
Could teach skills to the younger set.
This is what old time schools and churches did
Before our communities became so big.
Community schools would be perfect spaces
To create these safe parenting places.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Core Competencies
It's not that I'm jealous, it's just that I didn't know
That wife and mother was a path down which I should not go.
I was taught that this was all that women could achieve;
It was in the kindness of our masters that we should believe.
The best gift a girl could have was her body and her face;
And a sweet disposition could win her the husband race.
But for those of us not beautiful or suitably sexy,
There were few options that our daddies could see.
The convents and the streets were no longer in need;
There were already too many in them for the men to lead.
What good families did with these drains on them
Was to give them to anyone with money like the men.
For the mistakes of wrong vocations, who must take the blame?
How many parents are there who still hang their heads in shame?
At least we see our children and their children have a voice
For exploring their gifts before they make a life's choice.
Not every woman is meant to mother, nor every man to be rich;
All jobs still need to be done, but the roles we now can switch.
It's too late for me to start over, as it is for my man.
We reached our core competencies in the past generation's plan.
I am simply grateful that our children must no more live the lies
By which our parents and their parents, their true gifts disguised.
All future generations, in all countries with liberty
Can seek The Spirit's guidance in what we each are meant to be.
That wife and mother was a path down which I should not go.
I was taught that this was all that women could achieve;
It was in the kindness of our masters that we should believe.
The best gift a girl could have was her body and her face;
And a sweet disposition could win her the husband race.
But for those of us not beautiful or suitably sexy,
There were few options that our daddies could see.
The convents and the streets were no longer in need;
There were already too many in them for the men to lead.
What good families did with these drains on them
Was to give them to anyone with money like the men.
For the mistakes of wrong vocations, who must take the blame?
How many parents are there who still hang their heads in shame?
At least we see our children and their children have a voice
For exploring their gifts before they make a life's choice.
Not every woman is meant to mother, nor every man to be rich;
All jobs still need to be done, but the roles we now can switch.
It's too late for me to start over, as it is for my man.
We reached our core competencies in the past generation's plan.
I am simply grateful that our children must no more live the lies
By which our parents and their parents, their true gifts disguised.
All future generations, in all countries with liberty
Can seek The Spirit's guidance in what we each are meant to be.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Frosting and Physical Therapy
I can now add to my resume that I frosted a cake for the first lady of a state. The governor’s mansion’s chef, my buddy Holly, has been having increasing difficulty with her torn rotator and bicep. The motions required for spreading frosting required one of her more painful positions. I was honored to be called to her rescue. In the bargain, I got to hang out in the kitchen while the new governor and his wife ate their supper. They were delightfully friendly to me. It’s nice meeting public people in their private worlds.
I’m now waiting for Holly’s shoulder to be rebuilt. Because of her pain, her surgery was rescheduled for an earlier date than originally anticipated. This may make my chauffeur services unnecessary as she goes to Florida to accept her recently deceased husband’s industry award for his work in establishing safety standards for the residential window cleaning industry. Oh well, at least I’ll still head away from snow country, back to Louisiana, until the spring thaw in Coker Creek.
My major worry, at this point, is that Holly’s supposed to do daily post-surgery exercises to regain her range of motion. This is the second time that Holly is having her rotator cuff repaired, and she has told me how brutally painful the exercises are. She really may need a drill sergeant, and I’ve been informed by her that I’m an enabler. My daughter once told me that I want my children to grow, but don’t want them to go through the pain of growth. What’s a mother (or friend) to do?
Maybe I’ll call our Coker Creek friend Charlie for tips on being a “physical terrorist” as he was the impetus for our friend Jim actually exercising his new knee. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.
I’m now waiting for Holly’s shoulder to be rebuilt. Because of her pain, her surgery was rescheduled for an earlier date than originally anticipated. This may make my chauffeur services unnecessary as she goes to Florida to accept her recently deceased husband’s industry award for his work in establishing safety standards for the residential window cleaning industry. Oh well, at least I’ll still head away from snow country, back to Louisiana, until the spring thaw in Coker Creek.
My major worry, at this point, is that Holly’s supposed to do daily post-surgery exercises to regain her range of motion. This is the second time that Holly is having her rotator cuff repaired, and she has told me how brutally painful the exercises are. She really may need a drill sergeant, and I’ve been informed by her that I’m an enabler. My daughter once told me that I want my children to grow, but don’t want them to go through the pain of growth. What’s a mother (or friend) to do?
Maybe I’ll call our Coker Creek friend Charlie for tips on being a “physical terrorist” as he was the impetus for our friend Jim actually exercising his new knee. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Impatient With Isolation
As teenagers, we're told to control ourselves,
To stifle it and to suck it up.
We put our emotions in a closet
To let out when the big crises erupt.
The artistic types use their artistry;
The athletes push them into muscles.
This leaves the mere mortals among us
All this emotion with which to struggle.
We close our eyes and our hearts
Until sex or drugs intervene;
Thinking we are our most grown up
When our passions aren't seen.
It's okay to show our inner selves
If we are drunk with lust or intoxication;
But the feelings we show to each other
Are often, for sin, mistaken.
One who swears to hold your heart comes along
You flirt, then jump into the middle.
You don't know the tidal wave that will emerge
Once, with the barriers, you've fiddled.
Each of the couple crawls back to their own closet;
When they couldn't survive on each other alone.
They work, they talk, and play with others,
And, if they're lucky, bring some love back home.
But what of the starving that happens to women
Left alone with their pasts and their babes?
From whom do they draw their uplifting,
When their mate's only emotion is rage?
And what of the many crying mothers who
Lose their husbands to war and pursuit of money?
From whom do they draw needed emotion
When they have lost their relationship's closet key?
Once you have a baby, I have a hole in your heart,
A path for your passion the whole world to see.
It's different than any you've felt before;
It's a wound from which you'll never be free.
It's best to find friends, say the older folks,
But what about the baby at your breast?
She is fussy no matter how much you mother,
And stimulation gives her more unrest.
The old ladies say you're doing it wrong,
As your man goes further away;
He thought that this marriage stuff
Was going to offer more chances to play.
You feel the pain of other mother/wives,
As their families have endless need.
Their mates, too, are working night and day,
As your hearts continue to bleed.
Who comes to rock the babies
Without giving us more pain?
Who can possibly be with us
Until we're strong again?
Who will hold our men for us,
And send them back still chaste?
Who can give so much of themselves
Without falling out of grace?
We're told to read our scriptures,
And bow our heads in prayer;
That, in this way, we'll feel
How much our God still cares.
But if the body human is
Still attached to Heaven,
Aren't each one of us put on earth
Each other's pain to leaven?
We are dying for lack of loving touch
That is freely, chastely given.
The children of our loins are,
Like we, to each other driven.
Are our churches and our homes
Giving them instruction by our actions,
How to give of ourselves and our gifts,
How to positively channel our passions?
And what about compassion
For the mistakes of others?
Are we teaching them to gently
Confront our sisters and brothers?
Or are we continuing
To hide in our own closets
Hoping that time alone
Will help us to forget?
Are we sitting with each other
Sharing the depths of our hearts?
Or are we still isolated
When the crises start?
To stifle it and to suck it up.
We put our emotions in a closet
To let out when the big crises erupt.
The artistic types use their artistry;
The athletes push them into muscles.
This leaves the mere mortals among us
All this emotion with which to struggle.
We close our eyes and our hearts
Until sex or drugs intervene;
Thinking we are our most grown up
When our passions aren't seen.
It's okay to show our inner selves
If we are drunk with lust or intoxication;
But the feelings we show to each other
Are often, for sin, mistaken.
One who swears to hold your heart comes along
You flirt, then jump into the middle.
You don't know the tidal wave that will emerge
Once, with the barriers, you've fiddled.
Each of the couple crawls back to their own closet;
When they couldn't survive on each other alone.
They work, they talk, and play with others,
And, if they're lucky, bring some love back home.
But what of the starving that happens to women
Left alone with their pasts and their babes?
From whom do they draw their uplifting,
When their mate's only emotion is rage?
And what of the many crying mothers who
Lose their husbands to war and pursuit of money?
From whom do they draw needed emotion
When they have lost their relationship's closet key?
Once you have a baby, I have a hole in your heart,
A path for your passion the whole world to see.
It's different than any you've felt before;
It's a wound from which you'll never be free.
It's best to find friends, say the older folks,
But what about the baby at your breast?
She is fussy no matter how much you mother,
And stimulation gives her more unrest.
The old ladies say you're doing it wrong,
As your man goes further away;
He thought that this marriage stuff
Was going to offer more chances to play.
You feel the pain of other mother/wives,
As their families have endless need.
Their mates, too, are working night and day,
As your hearts continue to bleed.
Who comes to rock the babies
Without giving us more pain?
Who can possibly be with us
Until we're strong again?
Who will hold our men for us,
And send them back still chaste?
Who can give so much of themselves
Without falling out of grace?
We're told to read our scriptures,
And bow our heads in prayer;
That, in this way, we'll feel
How much our God still cares.
But if the body human is
Still attached to Heaven,
Aren't each one of us put on earth
Each other's pain to leaven?
We are dying for lack of loving touch
That is freely, chastely given.
The children of our loins are,
Like we, to each other driven.
Are our churches and our homes
Giving them instruction by our actions,
How to give of ourselves and our gifts,
How to positively channel our passions?
And what about compassion
For the mistakes of others?
Are we teaching them to gently
Confront our sisters and brothers?
Or are we continuing
To hide in our own closets
Hoping that time alone
Will help us to forget?
Are we sitting with each other
Sharing the depths of our hearts?
Or are we still isolated
When the crises start?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Valuing Our Veterans
I'm sitting in the canteen at the Atlanta VA hospital, waiting on my Richard to get his medications refilled. As I walked down the halls, I felt that I should genuflect or something as the many men and women who offered their lives up for my freedom passed me. I was overwhelmed with the sense that I should be stopping each of them and thanking them for their sacrifices made for a bunch of strangers.
I've been both gratified and horrified by what I know about the way we treat our military, once we finish using them to fight our bloody wars. Richard became disabled long after the end of his service as a medical officer in Vietnam.
We were lucky to be eligible for the program that gave all former military personnel who had served during wartime the opportunity to sign up for medication benefits.
Thirty thousand dollars in medications to keep Richard's new heart from rejection was going to be quite a burden on his greatly reduced income. It was worth the red tape to get him included, and we were able to drop his COBRA medical insurance rather than have his whole office lose their coverage because of the cost of covering him. I was happy that his service during the war in Vietnam was going to give him the benefit of having done the right thing, something not to be taken for granted while we inhabit this earth.
Since this fortuitous event in our lives, I've hung my head in shame more than once over the injustices done to many of our veterans and their families. A friend, who was raising three children while her pilot husband flew hospital planes in Vietnam, informed me that while she was waiting on his return, alone with her children, she received death threats from people accusing her husband of being a "baby killer."
Recently, a good friend with a minimal retirement income was diagnosed with a type of leukemia for which there are good treatments available. Knowing that this friend had served two tours of duty as a medic in Vietnam, we were sure that he would have no problem qualifying for his well-deserved prescription benefits. This turned out not to be the case. The enrollment for this program was closed shortly after Richard was successfully entered into it. It's bad enough that our friend is now faced with an impossible situation, as his medications cost eighty thousand dollars a year. What makes it even worse is that he had a service-related back injury for which he has consistently been denied benefits. It seems that the service "lost" his records.
The World War II veterans have been lauded as "the greatest generation", and I'm proud of Richard and his fellow World War II Museum volunteers for their efforts in honoring them. But the veterans of the wars we didn't win, Korea and Vietnam, are still experiencing disrespect and neglect. I hope we will live long enough to see this changed, and not simply by inscriptions on war memorials.
I've been both gratified and horrified by what I know about the way we treat our military, once we finish using them to fight our bloody wars. Richard became disabled long after the end of his service as a medical officer in Vietnam.
We were lucky to be eligible for the program that gave all former military personnel who had served during wartime the opportunity to sign up for medication benefits.
Thirty thousand dollars in medications to keep Richard's new heart from rejection was going to be quite a burden on his greatly reduced income. It was worth the red tape to get him included, and we were able to drop his COBRA medical insurance rather than have his whole office lose their coverage because of the cost of covering him. I was happy that his service during the war in Vietnam was going to give him the benefit of having done the right thing, something not to be taken for granted while we inhabit this earth.
Since this fortuitous event in our lives, I've hung my head in shame more than once over the injustices done to many of our veterans and their families. A friend, who was raising three children while her pilot husband flew hospital planes in Vietnam, informed me that while she was waiting on his return, alone with her children, she received death threats from people accusing her husband of being a "baby killer."
Recently, a good friend with a minimal retirement income was diagnosed with a type of leukemia for which there are good treatments available. Knowing that this friend had served two tours of duty as a medic in Vietnam, we were sure that he would have no problem qualifying for his well-deserved prescription benefits. This turned out not to be the case. The enrollment for this program was closed shortly after Richard was successfully entered into it. It's bad enough that our friend is now faced with an impossible situation, as his medications cost eighty thousand dollars a year. What makes it even worse is that he had a service-related back injury for which he has consistently been denied benefits. It seems that the service "lost" his records.
The World War II veterans have been lauded as "the greatest generation", and I'm proud of Richard and his fellow World War II Museum volunteers for their efforts in honoring them. But the veterans of the wars we didn't win, Korea and Vietnam, are still experiencing disrespect and neglect. I hope we will live long enough to see this changed, and not simply by inscriptions on war memorials.
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