It's not unusual in this part of the country to be isolated at home by the weather. Today has turned out to be such a day: a raging blizzard has struck St. Paul, and there's no way my little Corolla is going to make it anyplace. Luckily I was smart enough last night to pick up fixings for a large meal and I have plenty of movies and in-home projects to do. I decided to take the blizzard as a gift of time rather than a frustrating weather event stopping me from my usual goings of here and there.
As I look outside, all I can see is the world being covered up by a huge bluster of white. There's nothing inviting about it (unless you're my yearling German Shepherd, who insists on sitting on the back steps with his head tilted in fascination). It's weather of hot chocolate, flannel sheets, and thick novels. Weather to stay in and stay cozy.
Ironically, this time of year no one in our culture "stays in." Normally, we are out hustling and bustling, gift shopping and party going. It's almost as though our cultural practice of the "Holiday Season" gives Mother Nature the finger while she persistently tries to keep us still with cold and snow. Today is one of the rare days She has met success. Metro Transit has shut down city buses, and anyone I see brave enough to venture out is walking on the street and not the sidewalk. Our Mother is telling us it's time for stillness and quiet, to stay in and be with ourselves, an ancient notion She is enforcing in full today. I hope others can see this as the true gift it is and not stew in frustration at winter's heavy lifting. It's natural to stay in, so just go with the flow, and enjoy.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thoughts on Fresh Paint
Over the course of the past year and a half or so, I've been slowly changing the colors of all the rooms of my house. It started with the three-season porch (red to purple), then the master bedroom (nicotine off white to eucalyptus green), the kitchen (awful pastel sea green to straw yellow), and finally my living/dining room space, which has been the source of my labor for the past three days. This process has proven to be most therapeutic.
The history of my tenure in this home is a sad one. The emotional wounds have long scarred over and I have no wish to scratch them here, but occasionally a wound re-opens and I find myself wanting to live somewhere else. However, because of the timing of my purchase, there isn't a economically wise way out of the mortgage. So I'm left to deal with it, but I decided I'm not going to live with it "as is." My method of sealing the wounds for good involves paint, and not only the new color but the process involved.
Before you can think of painting, cleaning must happen first. All the dust and grime needs to go, all the nail holes filled in. This part of the process was particularly wonderful the living room, since the "ex" had decided it a nice idea to hang a print with not two, not three, but EIGHT roofing nails! I don't need to say why this was unwise, but when the print was removed it was destroyed and the nails left nasty holes in the wall. The holes are no more, and after a few weeks of the new paint I probably won't remember them anymore.
The color itself is much brighter than the old. I went from the same nicotine-stain off white of the bedroom to a much brighter porcelain off white. It's still neutral, but the color actually makes the room look bigger. With every brush or roller stroke, I sealed away forever every disagreement, every name-calling, and every tear that was shed in this space before, during, and after that relationship. A fresh coat of paint has become more than a new color. It is an intrinsic method of healing and moving forward without a constant reminder of what is behind.
The history of my tenure in this home is a sad one. The emotional wounds have long scarred over and I have no wish to scratch them here, but occasionally a wound re-opens and I find myself wanting to live somewhere else. However, because of the timing of my purchase, there isn't a economically wise way out of the mortgage. So I'm left to deal with it, but I decided I'm not going to live with it "as is." My method of sealing the wounds for good involves paint, and not only the new color but the process involved.
Before you can think of painting, cleaning must happen first. All the dust and grime needs to go, all the nail holes filled in. This part of the process was particularly wonderful the living room, since the "ex" had decided it a nice idea to hang a print with not two, not three, but EIGHT roofing nails! I don't need to say why this was unwise, but when the print was removed it was destroyed and the nails left nasty holes in the wall. The holes are no more, and after a few weeks of the new paint I probably won't remember them anymore.
The color itself is much brighter than the old. I went from the same nicotine-stain off white of the bedroom to a much brighter porcelain off white. It's still neutral, but the color actually makes the room look bigger. With every brush or roller stroke, I sealed away forever every disagreement, every name-calling, and every tear that was shed in this space before, during, and after that relationship. A fresh coat of paint has become more than a new color. It is an intrinsic method of healing and moving forward without a constant reminder of what is behind.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thoughts on Why I Voted
When I was younger, I used to get wrapped up in political issues. I often was involved in heated discussions at work or among friends regarding topics, myself falling on the more liberal side. I was dissatisfied and angry most of the time, and adversarial towards others who had different opinions.
Over time, I have become less concerned with large political things and more concerned with making my own way. Rather than go out and carry a sign and yell until I'm blue in the face, I focus on leading a life of peace and love; attempting to be the best person I can be. I learned I cannot improve the world by arguing over issues, but if I carry myself with respect and love for others I at least have a small chance of making a difference.
So when I strolled into the polling place this morning, I found myself wondering what I was doing there. Minnesota is electing a new governor, and while I watched enough of a debate to get an idea of who I liked best, I couldn't help thinking that the world will go on regardless of who is governor. And then there are all the small races, where only some of the names are familiar to me from seeing yard signs while walking the dog.
As I strolled out of the polling place it occurred to me that I vote because I can, and really no other reason. There are places in the world where elections are fixed, or the people are coerced into voting for one certain candidate. Even in our own country, it is as recent as a hundred years ago when women obtained the right to vote and as recent as fifty people of color obtained the same right. This is a right that was fought for, and not one to snub in the face. Lots of people put their hearts and souls into making sure people like me can have a say.
So although sometimes my methods are arbitrary (e.g. one of the small races, conservation officer or something like that, had a candidate with the same name as an uncle of mine, so I voted for him), at least I get out there and honor my right.
Over time, I have become less concerned with large political things and more concerned with making my own way. Rather than go out and carry a sign and yell until I'm blue in the face, I focus on leading a life of peace and love; attempting to be the best person I can be. I learned I cannot improve the world by arguing over issues, but if I carry myself with respect and love for others I at least have a small chance of making a difference.
So when I strolled into the polling place this morning, I found myself wondering what I was doing there. Minnesota is electing a new governor, and while I watched enough of a debate to get an idea of who I liked best, I couldn't help thinking that the world will go on regardless of who is governor. And then there are all the small races, where only some of the names are familiar to me from seeing yard signs while walking the dog.
As I strolled out of the polling place it occurred to me that I vote because I can, and really no other reason. There are places in the world where elections are fixed, or the people are coerced into voting for one certain candidate. Even in our own country, it is as recent as a hundred years ago when women obtained the right to vote and as recent as fifty people of color obtained the same right. This is a right that was fought for, and not one to snub in the face. Lots of people put their hearts and souls into making sure people like me can have a say.
So although sometimes my methods are arbitrary (e.g. one of the small races, conservation officer or something like that, had a candidate with the same name as an uncle of mine, so I voted for him), at least I get out there and honor my right.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thoughts on the Ground Zero Mosque
I rarely get my thoughts wound up over political issues. I've noticed that most issues are either a flash lightening, hitting hard and fast but then gone, or they linger on and on like a bad smell in an old house. I generally stay away to maintain focus on what is mine to do and the impact I have on those directly around me. But like most Americans, I can't simply look away and allow the affects of 9-11 to tumble off my back.
In recent weeks there has been a large debate going on about the building of a mosque near Ground Zero. I have read that the likes of Newt Gingrich say that such a thing would be like hanging Nazi symbols at concentration camps. I'm not sure that comparison is apt. Islam is a faith, a religion, and while yes it collides with political ideology, one quick google search will tell you the Nazis were not a particularly religious organization. And in matters of war, the Nazis certianly did not behave as terrorist cells do today.
I have to wonder how many people who oppose the mosque personally know anyone who practices the Muslim faith. Through my travels, I have been fortunate enought to be of acquaintance of several, and getting to know at least one, a middle-aged woman. And because sometimes I'm a little too precotious for me own good, I had to ask about her thoughts on 9-11 and how Muslims are perceived in America today. Her response was surprisingly innocent: she said she just didn't understand how the actions of a very fanatical very few Muslims could create so much dissent among Americans; when at the same time there are also a very fanatical very few fanatical group of Christians commit crimes of domestic terror, not to mention war on an international scale. She went on to tell me that the basics of Islam are not so different than the basics of Christianity: be a good person. Love your neighbor. Don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal, and don't kill. And as with any religion, there are fanatics who twist the religious texts to say what they want it to say.
After talking with her I began to feel that the building of a Mosque at Ground Zero would be a message of peace, a gesture that prejudice against those of a different religion is dying, not running rampant like weeds in an unkempt garden. It seems that allowing the Mosque would serve to help Americans get over their fear of Muslims in general, where the fear is based on the actions of the fanatical few and not the every day, hard working, family raising, tax paying Muslim.
In recent weeks there has been a large debate going on about the building of a mosque near Ground Zero. I have read that the likes of Newt Gingrich say that such a thing would be like hanging Nazi symbols at concentration camps. I'm not sure that comparison is apt. Islam is a faith, a religion, and while yes it collides with political ideology, one quick google search will tell you the Nazis were not a particularly religious organization. And in matters of war, the Nazis certianly did not behave as terrorist cells do today.
I have to wonder how many people who oppose the mosque personally know anyone who practices the Muslim faith. Through my travels, I have been fortunate enought to be of acquaintance of several, and getting to know at least one, a middle-aged woman. And because sometimes I'm a little too precotious for me own good, I had to ask about her thoughts on 9-11 and how Muslims are perceived in America today. Her response was surprisingly innocent: she said she just didn't understand how the actions of a very fanatical very few Muslims could create so much dissent among Americans; when at the same time there are also a very fanatical very few fanatical group of Christians commit crimes of domestic terror, not to mention war on an international scale. She went on to tell me that the basics of Islam are not so different than the basics of Christianity: be a good person. Love your neighbor. Don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal, and don't kill. And as with any religion, there are fanatics who twist the religious texts to say what they want it to say.
After talking with her I began to feel that the building of a Mosque at Ground Zero would be a message of peace, a gesture that prejudice against those of a different religion is dying, not running rampant like weeds in an unkempt garden. It seems that allowing the Mosque would serve to help Americans get over their fear of Muslims in general, where the fear is based on the actions of the fanatical few and not the every day, hard working, family raising, tax paying Muslim.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Thoughts on The Fruits of the Spirit
One rare evening while zoning out in front of the television, a commercial caught my eye. The commercial depicted a kid walking through wet cement, then past an older gentleman who was putting down a sidewalk. The older gentleman just smiled at the kid, and the words "Patience, Pass It On" appear at the bottom of the screen to the tune of "Don't Worry, Be Happy." I was struck to see a fruit of the spirit advertising itself, and that somoene in our go-go-go me-me-me world felt the need to spread this message.
It also brought back an obscure childhool memory of vacation bible school. As a kid, my mom would stash us at church every day for a week or two, something that was painful at the time. From hideous arts and crafts, to having to hear about Jesus all dang day it was not my idea of summer vacation. Despite the pain, I remember enjoying some of songs we sang, largely because the Pastor would break out his bass guitar (let's face it, for Northern Minnesota Lutherans a bass guitar is pretty wild). One of the songs was called "The Fruits of the Spirit". The words were simple, the tune was "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and we sang it as a round.
For readers unfamiliar with the fruits of the spirit, they are: Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-Control. The idea of nuturing and sharing these fruits is one of the few lessons that has stuck with me from Sunday School days, as you don't have to be a Lutheran (or any Christian varietal) to practice them. Anyone, from the most die-hard right wing fanatic to the complete non-believing athiest can have any and all of those qualities.
Obviously, the fruits of the spirit in today's world are not so abundant, or the folks who run http://www.values.com would not feel the need to advertise them. I find myself curious if a non-patient person might see this commercial, and actually make a change in their behavior because of it. I know it made me stop and think about how many times a day I feel unnecessarily urgent and impatient, for no particular reason other than the go-go-go me-me-me world says I'm supposed to hurry. It also reminded me of the rest of the lyrics to the song: "against such there is no law." There is no reason NOT to act in such a way, as you will not get a ticket for being nice, loving, and especially controlling oneself (gee if only more of us could do that). If we manage to nurture these fruits, and share them with everyone we see, the world just might be a little more pleasant.
To see the TV spot that inspired this blog, go here:
http://www.values.com/inspirational-stories-tv-spots/107-Wet-Cement
It also brought back an obscure childhool memory of vacation bible school. As a kid, my mom would stash us at church every day for a week or two, something that was painful at the time. From hideous arts and crafts, to having to hear about Jesus all dang day it was not my idea of summer vacation. Despite the pain, I remember enjoying some of songs we sang, largely because the Pastor would break out his bass guitar (let's face it, for Northern Minnesota Lutherans a bass guitar is pretty wild). One of the songs was called "The Fruits of the Spirit". The words were simple, the tune was "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and we sang it as a round.
For readers unfamiliar with the fruits of the spirit, they are: Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-Control. The idea of nuturing and sharing these fruits is one of the few lessons that has stuck with me from Sunday School days, as you don't have to be a Lutheran (or any Christian varietal) to practice them. Anyone, from the most die-hard right wing fanatic to the complete non-believing athiest can have any and all of those qualities.
Obviously, the fruits of the spirit in today's world are not so abundant, or the folks who run http://www.values.com would not feel the need to advertise them. I find myself curious if a non-patient person might see this commercial, and actually make a change in their behavior because of it. I know it made me stop and think about how many times a day I feel unnecessarily urgent and impatient, for no particular reason other than the go-go-go me-me-me world says I'm supposed to hurry. It also reminded me of the rest of the lyrics to the song: "against such there is no law." There is no reason NOT to act in such a way, as you will not get a ticket for being nice, loving, and especially controlling oneself (gee if only more of us could do that). If we manage to nurture these fruits, and share them with everyone we see, the world just might be a little more pleasant.
To see the TV spot that inspired this blog, go here:
http://www.values.com/inspirational-stories-tv-spots/107-Wet-Cement
Monday, July 12, 2010
Thoughts on Being a Crazy Cat Lady
I grew up with pets. My parets always had dogs, and the dogs were a major part of our family. As a young adult, I found myself living alone in a small, inner city apartment with nothing living near me save the weeds growing in the sidewalk cracks. To remedy the situation, I found Frankie, my short hair orange tabby, at the local humane society. Over the years, two others, Roscoe and Deano (who I have recently re-named Miss Dean because she is a girly girl with a boy name) have made their way into my home.
During my heyday of dating, when I'd meet someone new and mention I have three cats the eyebrow always went up accompanied by a grin that told me the gentleman didn't want to express his exact thoughts. I had one man tell me I'm only truely a "Crazy Cat Lady" if I replace the cats as they pass away to the afterlife! Does that mean I am in pre-Crazy Cat Lady status, and the state of my Crazy Cat Lady-dom hinges on how long my sweet babies survive? That relationship promtly ended when I told him that I only date men who are more entertaining than the cats, because they will entertain me for hours with their antics of rastle and chase.
Yes, I call them my "sweet babies." At least one of them is always willing to play, one always willing to purr, and one always willing to lay on his or her back and look up at me with pure cuteness. When I'm settled in to watch a movie, Miss Dean curls on my lap, and the boys sit on either side, completely surrounding me with their feline goodness. When my alarm sounds in the oh-so-early A.M., Frankie will be there next to me, purring away with a purr that says "Don't go to work, mommy, lay here with me." No matter what I'm doing, they want to be there, next to me. I love them for that.
They don't ask questions, like why am I home later than usual, what's for dinner (although they freely beg for their dinner), or when will I mow the lawn. Their only expectation is that they eventually eat, have clean litter, and get scratched under the chin now and again. I love them for that, too.
While I do not have a house swarming with cats, the three I have are so lovely, so sweet, and I wouldn't give them up for anything. Frankie alone has lived in three apartments and one house, saw me through two unsettling break ups, tolerated a roommate (and the roommate's cat, another story all together), and he does have the final say. Frankie isn't going anywhere. As for the other two, Roscoe is so overweight he is a magnificent conversation piece and Miss Dean is so damn cute yet crafty and anyone who dares pet her receives a hiss and paw swipe in return.
And I love them all.
During my heyday of dating, when I'd meet someone new and mention I have three cats the eyebrow always went up accompanied by a grin that told me the gentleman didn't want to express his exact thoughts. I had one man tell me I'm only truely a "Crazy Cat Lady" if I replace the cats as they pass away to the afterlife! Does that mean I am in pre-Crazy Cat Lady status, and the state of my Crazy Cat Lady-dom hinges on how long my sweet babies survive? That relationship promtly ended when I told him that I only date men who are more entertaining than the cats, because they will entertain me for hours with their antics of rastle and chase.
Yes, I call them my "sweet babies." At least one of them is always willing to play, one always willing to purr, and one always willing to lay on his or her back and look up at me with pure cuteness. When I'm settled in to watch a movie, Miss Dean curls on my lap, and the boys sit on either side, completely surrounding me with their feline goodness. When my alarm sounds in the oh-so-early A.M., Frankie will be there next to me, purring away with a purr that says "Don't go to work, mommy, lay here with me." No matter what I'm doing, they want to be there, next to me. I love them for that.
They don't ask questions, like why am I home later than usual, what's for dinner (although they freely beg for their dinner), or when will I mow the lawn. Their only expectation is that they eventually eat, have clean litter, and get scratched under the chin now and again. I love them for that, too.
While I do not have a house swarming with cats, the three I have are so lovely, so sweet, and I wouldn't give them up for anything. Frankie alone has lived in three apartments and one house, saw me through two unsettling break ups, tolerated a roommate (and the roommate's cat, another story all together), and he does have the final say. Frankie isn't going anywhere. As for the other two, Roscoe is so overweight he is a magnificent conversation piece and Miss Dean is so damn cute yet crafty and anyone who dares pet her receives a hiss and paw swipe in return.
And I love them all.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Conquering the Cookies
Today I was presented with a common challenge: the large platter full of large cookies at the center of a conference table. There were sugar cookies. M & M cookies. Chocolate-on-chocolate. Macaroon. Seemed any type of cookie a bakery could offer was on this platter. Each and every cookie spoke to me: if it wasn't demanding I pick it up and eat it then and there, it was asking me to discreetly package it in a napkin and wisk it back to my cubicle where the two us may enjoy each other in semi-privacy.
Unfortunately, this was a lunch meeting, and seeing as I am in the meagerest point of the month my lunch consisted of a PB & J, a sandwich variety normally reserved for school children. My appetite was no where near satisfied, and the murmur of "eat me" whispers coming from the cookies soon became a resounding choir of culinary Sirens, singing me to my diet doom. I tried to distract myself with the discussion of the meeting, but the voices of others were lost mid-way across the table, creating chaotic noise in my head. From my deepest depths, I tried to shout back at the cookies:
"No! I don't need you and your refined sugar!"
But the more stand-offish I was with them, the more tempting they became to me. And finally, I gave in. A perfectly round, light tan colored cookie flecked with M & Ms found its way into my eager hands.
"I shouldn't eat you," I thought, as I raised the first bite to my mouth. So soft, so scrumptous!
"This will make my stomach hurt," continued the thought, as I continued eating, now trying to break off dainty little pieces rather than chowing the whole thing down in three, ravenous bites. But I still ate the same amount: the whole cookie. I sat staring at the grease stains it left on the napkin, wrestling down the feelings of guilt and regret over the slip-up.
I spent the next hour and a half (the rest of the meeting) pondering my lost negotiation with the cookie. I know eating this one cookie will not sabotage me forever, and it is nothing more than my human nature rearing its head. It was time to conquer the cookies, to ignore them as though they were a puppy begging for attention. I decided not to allow one little (or insanely large) cookie destroy any amount of pride I have from all the accomplishments and hard work I have put in on my fitness journey. Once the decision was made not to listen to the temptations, they silenced and one would have thought cookies couldn't talk at all.
On any pursuit of better health, there will be temptations. Sometimes the temptations are weak blips barely noticed, other times they are loud bull horns demanding our attention. Which ever is the case, we must take them one at a time, and not get hung up when we succumb to ___________ (fill in the blank). It does not mean the journey is over, or the journey thus far was pointless, but that it must continue, one foot in front of the other.
Unfortunately, this was a lunch meeting, and seeing as I am in the meagerest point of the month my lunch consisted of a PB & J, a sandwich variety normally reserved for school children. My appetite was no where near satisfied, and the murmur of "eat me" whispers coming from the cookies soon became a resounding choir of culinary Sirens, singing me to my diet doom. I tried to distract myself with the discussion of the meeting, but the voices of others were lost mid-way across the table, creating chaotic noise in my head. From my deepest depths, I tried to shout back at the cookies:
"No! I don't need you and your refined sugar!"
But the more stand-offish I was with them, the more tempting they became to me. And finally, I gave in. A perfectly round, light tan colored cookie flecked with M & Ms found its way into my eager hands.
"I shouldn't eat you," I thought, as I raised the first bite to my mouth. So soft, so scrumptous!
"This will make my stomach hurt," continued the thought, as I continued eating, now trying to break off dainty little pieces rather than chowing the whole thing down in three, ravenous bites. But I still ate the same amount: the whole cookie. I sat staring at the grease stains it left on the napkin, wrestling down the feelings of guilt and regret over the slip-up.
I spent the next hour and a half (the rest of the meeting) pondering my lost negotiation with the cookie. I know eating this one cookie will not sabotage me forever, and it is nothing more than my human nature rearing its head. It was time to conquer the cookies, to ignore them as though they were a puppy begging for attention. I decided not to allow one little (or insanely large) cookie destroy any amount of pride I have from all the accomplishments and hard work I have put in on my fitness journey. Once the decision was made not to listen to the temptations, they silenced and one would have thought cookies couldn't talk at all.
On any pursuit of better health, there will be temptations. Sometimes the temptations are weak blips barely noticed, other times they are loud bull horns demanding our attention. Which ever is the case, we must take them one at a time, and not get hung up when we succumb to ___________ (fill in the blank). It does not mean the journey is over, or the journey thus far was pointless, but that it must continue, one foot in front of the other.
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