The Adventure of Pain and the Pursuit of Happiness

I have a frown line. It slices my brow in half and renders me looking "bitchy" even when I'm feeling rather docile. It's a real condition, you know. I know because I've read about it on the internet. It's called 'Bitchy Resting Face'. You learn more about BRF HERE.

I have pondered several theories about how I developed this condition. Was it from squinting too much? Concentrating too hard? Do I pout a lot? Did squirrels descend upon me in my sleep and scratch my brow? Or, Am I a bitch? We may never know...

There is one theory that I've recently contemplated with some seriousness. Maybe, I have been unhappy. Unhappy, a lot. More than I've been happy. Enough to leave a permanent (at least without Botox) imprint on my face. A symbol to the world around me that I have been angry or sad or distressed... unhappy.

I watched a PBS movie a month or so ago, called 'Happy'. It discussed what makes people happy, presenting the very common philosophy that happiness is somewhat self-made. Happy people DO certain things that unhappy people don't do. The narrator introduced viewers to a variety of very happy people living in seemingly destitute surroundings, but, because of their community/generous spirits/positive outlooks they were untouched by their lack of comforts and conveniences. Of course the movie also touched on the merits of low-stress living and lots of good sleep.

The positive-thinking model for happiness has always disturbed me. Books like, 'The Secret', left me empty and unsettled, irritated even. It's not that I don't see value in optimism, or seeking out the silver linings; I just strongly disagree that a person can positive-think themselves out of legitimate trauma. The theory ignores the very natural and necessary stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I'll concede that everyone is impacted differently by the disappointments of life. Some seem to wear no evidence of hardship at all. I'm both happy for, and question the depth of, those people.

Then there's the, "it could be worse, you could be...." answer to adversity; or the, "but look at all that you still have," response to loss; or even the, "buck up, we all have bad days!" pat on the back in the midst of devastation. These statements come from a place of naivety; at least I choose to believe that people don't say these things with the intent of belittling a person's very real pain. (See, I can be positive!) I'll never forget receiving a card from a well-meaning friend, at a time when I (the mother of three small children) had just lost my home, my church, much of my social support, and was facing my husband's pending imprisonment. The card said the equivalent of "darn, I got a run in my stockings and hit all red lights today - time for chocolate!" Do I even need to explain why that sentiment came nowhere near to easing my pain at that time? A "bad day" does not equate to a devastating blow. And yet, even a bad day merits the stages of grief, if only mildly so.

Like every other being, I have experienced loss. Some of my losses have been disappointing, some have been heartbreaking, and some have left me in utter desolation. I have no need to compare my losses to those of others. Certainly, and sadly, others have experienced more loss than I have. But the tragedies in my own life have challenged the plans laid in my DNA, and changed my very form (evidenced by my BRF??); much like the scars left by falling off a bike, chicken pox, pregnancy/giving birth, or injuries from war.

Last night I sat in a group therapy session. I listened to the stories of others and the insights of the moderator and internalized what I could. The group is for codependency, a little habit I picked up (in truck loads) along my way. Essentially, the message is to love myself better, and to love others without destroying myself. It's teaching me to allow the grief, be kind to my heart, and take care of myself.

I think I've struggled the most with letting go of the injustices and the hurts and accepting the reality of my life's picture. The death of my birth-father, painful break-ups and multiple divorces, betrayals, losses of homes, cars, income, beauty, and struggles with health; just typing the memories causes my throat to tighten. I've become disillusioned with so many of the desires of my youth. The canvass, which in the optimism of my childhood was soft and fluffy white, has over the years been slapped with abstract lines and harsh tones, portraying a scene that is drastically different from the hopeful visions of my prior self. Who is this painting of? Is she ok? Do I accept her, this ragged Picasso-like shadow with a frown line etched in her brow? I want to. I want to be proud of her. I want to LOVE her... me.

In our group, the moderator re-stated the ever cliche, "Life is not fair." She gave some impactful quote that more eloquently said that pain is a fact of life; the sooner we accept that truth, the sooner we can move on. Half of getting through the pain is just acknowledging that it could even happen to us. Hence, the 'denial' stage of grief. I guess many of us have a tendency to believe that we shouldn't have to feel pain.

Pain is the inevitable challenge of life. The irony in the acceptance of pain and the experience of loss, is that therein is the birth of empathy. It is in learning to cope with pain that we experience the rawness of compassion for the hurts of others and the beauty of our connection with humanity. Empathy is a powerful ingredient in the ability to love. It is in the adventure of pain that we find our courage, stamina, resilience, and our capacity to love, which, I suspect, is also the epicenter of genuine happiness.

In the words of Helen Keller, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

For the Love of All That is Holy; Losing My Religion

I've mentioned before that my birth father left my mother for another woman. He left her the day before I was born. He was angry at her for getting pregnant. He was very narcissistic according to all accounts I've gathered from those who knew him.

Growing up without a father in the home those early years didn't phase me all that much. I mean, I missed my dad and I wanted my parents to be married like other kids' parents were, but my day-to-day life was relatively unhindered. One issue that did plague me, however, was that my parents were divorced. From what I'd picked up (from somewhere in our church-centered circle), divorce was a grievous sin, punishable by eternal damnation. This disturbed my impressionable five-year-old mind deeply. I'd learned that divorce was only permissible if infidelity had occurred, so I found some relief in learning that my father had been unfaithful. At least my mother, who was raising me, wasn't going to burn. Of course, I couldn't shake the guilt I felt over the recognition that I was glad that my mother would be saved, even if at the cost of my father's soul. It wasn't that I wanted him to be eternally damned, it's just that I knew her better. This notion that I chose my mother's salvation over my father's haunted me in my teenage years, following my father's early and torturous death from colon cancer.

I was a "Believer". From my earliest memories, I believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I believed the bible was the infallible word of God. I believed I was born into the one true church. And I wanted to be good. I couldn't wait to go to heaven. I was told that death would be over and in an instant I would open my eyes to the coming of Christ. I would get to go to heaven, where there was no pain or suffering; no fathers leaving pregnant mothers; no hardworking single mothers leaving their children in the care of babysitters for weeks at a time; no suffering from cancer. I have a vivid memory of standing in the kitchen one sunny afternoon, holding a knife I'd pulled from the kitchen drawer, contemplating the pros and cons of killing myself so that I could skip the living part and go directly to Heaven. I wasn't depressed or suicidal at all. I was just a believer. But, standing there, I realized that it might make my mother sad if I died, and I wasn't totally clear on the whole suicide thing - is it suicide if you're just trying to fast-track it to the streets of gold? So I decided to put the knife down and go out back and play. This is a true story.

I wavered in my faith at times, and tripped up quite a lot on following God's word, but I maintained my deep belief into my early years of motherhood. I wasn't just a blind believer either. I studied my bible. I learned of grace and attempted to practice love and forgiveness... acceptance of others. I become open to the possibility that mine wasn't the one true church, but that God was bigger than that and would make all things clear in the end.

On April 2, 2003, my pastor-husband returned home late from a church leadership meeting with news. I sat on the couch of our little Oxnard home as his words blew through me with a paralyzing chill. A betrayal had occurred. A confusing act of dishonesty, for which we would now stand trial.

I cannot overstate the profound devastation that I felt that night, and in the harrowing months that followed. I recognize that sensation now as shock. It's a feeling of surreality, a separation of your mind from your self. Denial, disbelief, panic, pain, bargaining... all the stages of grief hitting at once in an overwhelming wave of loss. Too much for the mind to process.

The church had their own reaction to the betrayal. They were hurt. They were hurt and exceedingly angry. In the wildfire of the news, they frothed with fury. They held meetings discussing the unforgivable sin, and the punishments they felt we deserved. The rumors grew into their own form of evil. We started getting threatening phone calls and letters. People that I had loved... the conclusions they drew, the hate they expressed, the absolute confidence they held in their actions against us. Group think. Burn him at the stake! Who cares what happens to his wife and children! They made callous statements, "I'd feel better if he lost everything," "Maybe if Cherie left him or if he went bankrupt or tried to kill himself, then I'd think he understood the magnitude of his sin." "We are warriors for the Lord, we need to break him at foot of the cross." They sent letters out to all of the churches on the west coast, exposing the allegations against us. They sent letters to all of the churches in Arizona (where we had moved to escape the hate) warning of our evils and telling church leaders that we should not be allowed to attend. I know of these letters because I saw them. At one point we were informed that private investigators had been hired to follow us and hack into our computers.

Nothing felt safe anymore.

A very precious few extended words of comfort to us during those days. I'll never forget those that did. One was the realtor that handled the sale of our home.

We sold our home in order to use equity to pay off debt to the church conference, but the conference leaders played dirty with the escrow and strong-armed the escrow officer into turning over funds that exceeded their due; funds that, by prior established contract, were the rightful property of my parents. Funds that exceeded $50,000.00. To be more clear, the conference leaders knowingly and effectively stole $50,000.00 from my parents while in the same breath publicly condemning us. And, while they had promised to drop the allegations against us if we repaid our debt to them, they withdrew that promise at the last minute.

It was our realtor that saved us. When he discovered the actions of the conference during the escrow process he was so disgusted that he contacted his friend at the LA Times who agreed to write up an expose of the conference leaders' underhandedness. Then our realtor informed the conference president that the expose would be published that Sunday and there would be picketers outside the conference offices Monday morning if he did not return the money to my parents and withdraw all allegations. The next day we received the call. The official statement from conference leadership was that they had decided to show us grace. I know otherwise.

We lost everything. I lost everything. I lost my home, most of my friends, my church, my denomination, my happy marriage, my sense of safety, my faith in people. I was suddenly more alone than I had ever imagined a person could be. I prayed. I cried. I worked my ass off to keep my children fed and housed. I sank in my soul-hollowing despair. I retreated from all relationships. I developed anxiety about answering the phone, checking the mail, or logging into the bank accounts.

In the years following our traumatic exit from the church, I sought answers to my questions about religion, God, the Bible, faith. How could a loving church, built on an act of grace, be so cruel and condemning? So quick to discard us?

Initially, I craved the familiar comfort of church. I found a grace-oriented non-denominational church to attend for a while. It was great. The people were so friendly, the praise music was inspiring, the women's fellowship group was very active, and they even had a cafe! The pastor knew of our history (thanks to a letter he had received) and accepted us anyway. I thought maybe I was safe. But, it was there, the spiritual comparisons and judgements being made. The homeschooling moms looking down on the traditional schoolers. The frequent attendees questioning the spirituality of the sporadic visitors. The awkward alter calls. It was subtle but I could still feel it, the sense that these people were just as likely to be in the crowd at the next heretic burning as those that were at ours.

Then there was the day at a women's breakfast event when the ladies passed around a petition to sign  for the preservation of the sanctity of marriage (i.e., the opposition of gay marriage). That little twinge of discomfort I had been feeling rushed to the surface. It was wrong. I knew this action was wrong. It wasn't what a loving God would want. But it was what the God of the Bible required; at least as I understood it. The conflict was so blaring and obvious that it could not be ignored. Not by me. Not anymore. That could not be my religion. If it meant my eternal damnation, then so be it. I could not turn my back on real, raw humans, who needed love, just because an ancient book seemed to tell me to.

I followed my questions. I read. I studied. I read, 'If Grace is True: Why God Will Save Every Person,' by Philip Gulley and James Mulholland, and 'End of Faith, Letter to a Christian Nation,' by Sam Harris. I read parenting books like, 'Kids are Worth It,' by Barbara Coloroso. I researched homosexuality. I researched the origins of the Bible, how it came together at the hands of both religious and political powers-that-be, motivated by agendas of manipulating the masses. I considered the findings of modern science and its inability to support biblical accounts. The more I read, the more I let go of the belief. The more I learned, the more I understood how little I knew; that there was no religion, no human, that had the whole truth. No perfect book. I let go of my understanding of God and faith. I concluded that if a truly loving God did exist, he would not punish and condemn; rather, he would love and restore. I decided that, as a human, I was gifted with life, and with that gift I was given the ability to choose how I wanted to live among the rest of humanity. I concluded that, if my actions or beliefs failed to reflect love, they should be questioned. I realized that the only way to grow and learn was to be open to new information and willing to adjust my beliefs accordingly.

And I concluded that the only thing I truly believed in was love. True, blazingly honest, empathetic, selfless, restorative LOVE.

Brotherly Love and All That

For those who may be unaware, we are experiencing an economic crisis. Good people have lost their jobs, their homes, their marriages, their health. Many educated, honorable, hard-working Americans are unable to find work. Not unwilling. Unable. And, contrary to popular belief, a job at McDonald's doesn't cover the mortgage, or insurance, or student loans, the electric bill, the car payment, childcare.. Let's be honest, even well-paid, two income households have trouble making ends meet.


What's that? You didn't lose everything? You still have your job? Home? Family? Health? You worked hard, tightened your belt. Good for you. What was your industry? By any chance, was it real estate, retail, financial services, construction, or design? Maybe. Did you buy your home before, or during, the real estate boom? I wonder if your mortgage payment doubled as your income dwindled and home value plummeted. Probably not. That only happened to the lazy, uneducated, mooching opportunists. Right?


And, hopefully, no one encountered major illness in the past five years. Good thing you had insurance, right? And I'm sure it covered all the lost work and medical bills. Phew! Good thing you didn't have any pre-existing conditions, or obnoxious deductibles, or unforeseen small print excluding your illness from coverage, right? Good thing.

It's election time again. Time to choose a political team and vote for our nation's leaders. Anyone else disenchanted? Am I just unAmerican to be in complete disgust? To feel the futility in it all? I want to believe that my vote counts, and that the leaders are honest. Please. I want to vote on laws designed to edify humanity and preserve our earth, rather than to fund corporate greed. I'd love to believe that people will set aside religious or party biases to honestly, and empethetically, consider their choices.

What would happen if we voted solely for the betterment of our fellow humans? Imagine people opening their minds to compassionately see through the eyes of others. Imagine, a country where people pursue equal opportunities for all; a world where we do unto others as we would have done to us, and we love our neighbors as ourselves. I wonder what politics would look like in a world like that...

Imagine

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First Comes Love, Then Comes....

I'm sitting here (again in my chair) snuggling my most beautiful Elliott Ocean.  He has deep ocean-blue eyes (appropriately), a fuzzy blondish head, and gulps his milk so sweetly in his animal footed pj's.  I want to give him the universe.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted a family.  I wanted at least three children.  I hoped for a modest home to love, with a garden, near the ocean, in a great town that I could live in forever.  I dreamed I would share all of this with my love, my husband.  And... we would live happily ever after...

What defines "family"?  Is it blood?  Marriage?  Cohabitation?  If marriage, then what is left when a marriage dissolves?  What about babies born out of wedlock?  Aren't they still family?  I'm obviously asking rhetorical questions.  With a 50% divorce rate, enough of us come from "creative" families to understand that the societal ideals rarely frame the real family portrait.  But should we be any less proud of the family that is, when it is not the ideal?  (Ok, before you start preparing your arguments, I'm not condoning mistreatment or a laissez faire approach to commitment here.  I'm just saying, life doesn't usually work according to plan; and if it seems to, watch out.)

50%... I know I've mentioned this several times but, c'mon... fifty percent!  And that's just on first marriages.  It goes up consecutively with second , third and so on.  So, if I've failed once shouldn't I just throw in the towel?  Christianity doesn't appear to help either.  In 1999, the Barna Research Group studied 3,854 adults from the 48 contiguous states and found that divorce rates among conservative Christians were significantly higher than for other faith groups, and much higher than Atheists and Agnostics.  So, if people are supporting marriage because of their faith, they might want to think twice.


Why doesn't it work?  I can't believe that it's because half of those getting divorced are just bad people and therefore are to blame.  Maybe it has to do with unrealistic expectations; looking for the fairytale.  Or, it could be the business of it all; it is largely a business relationship.  Getting married because, "that's what we do," is also clearly flawed.  I know we've all watched friends walk down that aisle because they didn't want to 'miss the boat'.  I remember feeling that twinge of stress when I graduated college single.  


Are we just a hopelessly optimistic people? Why does anyone get married?  I've read the arguments for marriage.  Men appear to live longer if they're married.  Married people are better off financially.  The government clearly rewards the marital union with tax breaks, health benefits, etc..  There's a reduced risk of STD's.  Maybe less loneliness as well?  Probably the most obvious benefit of marriage is the team approach to parenting; good for the parents as well as the children.  


Of course, several of the above justifications could be accomplished in a monogamous, committed relationship as well, right?  Not necessarily marriage.  Yes, I've also read the statistics of cohabitation.  Women who cohabitate are 80% more likely to divorce when they marry than women who don't.  Hmmm... Well, clearly, those women were cohabitating with the ultimate goal of marriage.  And might I stretch that further to suspect that said women were living with their partners because their partners were, maybe, not as committed to the idea of marriage as the women were? Or, not as committed to the women themselves? I've also read that cohabitation is highly successful when both partners are committed to non-marriage as well as to each other.  


Then you might ask, why not get married?  If two people are committed to such a union, what's stopping them from the ultimate plunge?  I think it might have something to do with the government's involvement.  You know, sticking it to the man?  Also, with the realistic possibility of breaking up at some point, maybe they're hoping to avoid the hassle of a divorce.  There are also those who refuse to marry until gay marriage is made legal; more of an admiral humanitarian stand.   

I think some have a deeper, more romantic motivation for non-marriage.  There is something to be said for loving your partner enough to always grant them the freedom to leave.  The idea that they stay because of love, choice, not legality. And knowing that you too have the same freedom.  It's empowering to know that you have the freedom to leave, or stay and choose the relationship every day.  Maybe it's the idea of a more spiritual commitment between just the two, without the dictation from society in general.  (If only there were better identifications than: "significant other"- other? Really? "Boy/girlfriend" - seems kind of trivial, right?  And don't even get me started on "partner".  Hmmm... does "spouse" work?)

But...

When marriage does work, it's a good thing.  There's a sense of belonging, of comfort, in the bond of marriage.  I guess it feels more like family when forever is promised.  It fosters a real, "we're in this ship together," mentality.  

AND, it comes with a pretty ring and a wedding!  Beautiful flowers, long white dress with customary veil, tuxedo, friends and family... Or, maybe, like me, you prefer something a little less traditional, a little more intimate.  However you go about it, you stand with another and publicly vow, "From hence forth, wherever you go, I go.  Our home is together.  Our families are each other's.  Your joy is mine, your pain, mine."  Outside of parenthood, marriage is (or should be) the boldest and most profound commitment one can make to another.  

Perhaps that's why it is so very devastating when it fails.  And why it is so scary for those of us who have felt its sting.  

I guess, ultimately, no matter what form of union you choose, LOVE itself is a risk.  And it's what we want so much.  Even when we attempt to guard ourselves from falling, we eventually gravitate back to it.  And then we are left, facing another vulnerable soul, hoping. 

If you made it through this little dissertation of mine, I hope you will do me this favor.  Share your thoughts with me.  What do you think/feel about the value of marriage?  Why did you choose to marry or not?  What have you learned?  Were you certain beyond question when you walked down the aisle, or were you afraid?  

I leave you with this...

"A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; 

it is the prerogative of the brave." 

~ Mahatma Gandhi

34 Weeks, 2 Days... Going Scared

"I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing." ~Anais Nin  (I stole this quote from my friend, Janet.)

How do I feel?

"

I feel scared.  

Not so much about the delivery; I've been down that road before, so I have an idea of what to expect.  It probably consumes about 5% of my fear.  I do worry about getting to the hospital in time.  I don't want to birth my baby on the side of the 680 (albeit a cool story if all ends well).


I have questions.


I wonder if my supporters will have time to be there with me, or if I will be alone.  Will Biscuit's daddy make it in time to welcome him into this life?  I know the desire is there.  Time and circumstances could be our enemy.  Will that be OK?


Will the postpartum depression kick in right away like it has in the past?  Can they inject me with estrogen and Zoloft to fight those demons off?  I have to fight them off.


Can I do this?  Again?  Will I love him well enough?  Give him the life he deserves?  Do my three know how deeply I love them?  Are we doing OK?  Will we?  We will.  I know we will.  


Where is the money coming from?  


I want to heal.  So much.  To heal. To love.  To press forward.  The loss is still so overwhelming.  Life still feels intensely foreign... and, is about to feel even more so.  


Sometimes I feel so alien.  Like no one in the world understands what I'm experiencing.  Where's the, "Older, pregnant, financially destitute, mid-divorce mommies" play group?  I don't fit.  Not a soccer mom.  Not a career woman.  Not feeling real successful in the marriage department.  I don't blend.  Most of the time I'm at peace with that.  I even appreciate some of my eccentricities.  But, when I want... need... belonging.  Support.  I feel a million miles out in the middle of nowhere.


I don't mean to wallow.  And, I know I'm not special.  I know everyone has pain that sets them a part for a time.  I do know this.  BUT, I wish some of my traumas were a little more run of the mill.  The kind books are written for.  It's just that several of the major events in my life, which have left me altered, just don't have support groups named after them.  And the sensational quality of some of my trials have left me wary of the motives of would-be supporters.  Is it the "scoop" they want, or do they care?  About me.  Who can I trust?

Will life get better?  Experience tells me that it will, eventually.  But, I'll always be aware of the fragility of it all.  I wish naivety could be restored.  I would so love to recapture the spunk and optimism of 17-year old Cherie. 


I'm here now.  37 years old.  A mother.  I'm looking for hope.  Light.  I am learning.  I am finding some of my own beauty.  Creating it.  I'm scared.  


Years ago I was scheduled to speak in front of a large group of people.  My nerves were eating me alive.  A good friend at the time said, "you don't have to feel calm, just go scared."


I am...
          going scared.

Independence Day

Independence Day.  


A time to celebrate freedom, bravery and the American legacy with hotdogs and semi-controlled explosives.  


In college I loved driving to watch the fireworks over the ocean in La Jolla, Ca.  It was so beautiful because there were always multiple shows glittering in the distance so it felt like the whole coast was celebrating together.  


For the past 13 years, I have spent the holiday dazzling my kids with sparklers, or taking them to community park celebrations, or driving them all over, chasing the various fireworks displays.  I have collected some very treasured memories.  


This year was different.  This year, it was just me.  


Independence Day.


I spent several hours in my car.  My radio options melted down to blended variations of spanish/christian/country with a consistent you're-not-quite-in-range-for-this-station buzz.  So I traded that noise for the hum of my car and the thoughts in my head.


Thoughts of my kids.  My life.  That new mystery sound coming from my engine which I can now hear since I turned the radio off... 


Thoughts of Independence.  


This year I visited a precious friend in rehab.  Fighting for his freedom from addiction.  His independence from misery.  I met the others and heard their stories.  Saw their loved ones.  Felt the hope.  Considered my own steps.


Independence is rarely painless.  It almost always requires bravery.  It requires a willingness to think differently, behave differently, risk being misunderstood or rejected.  Risk comfort, safety, companionship, change.  


It's the pivotal cliff.  For whatever reason, life has culminated at this ledge.  The choice is to either regress or step forward and hope to grow wings before hitting the rocks.


I made it back home by 7:00.  Fed the dogs.  Ate left-over casserole and chocolate chip cookies.  Climbed into bed around 9:00.  As I was drifting, I heard the pops and crackles.  It was a good day.


I spent Independence Day celebrating the process of progress.  Contemplating the fire of change which makes way for the brilliance of what will be.  Because, it seems, some of us are the phoenix.  We don't find our wings until after we've been reduced to ashes.  Scary.  Painful.  


But then... 
                       We SOAR...

People In-Between.

Went down to the lobby this morning.  Needed to ask the clerk a question.  They've decorated down there, a Christmas tree and such.  The carpet is already red, so it's pretty easy to harness the Christmas theme.  I had to wait my turn.  The three cops in front of me had some questions of their own.

"So, when did they check in?"

Nervous clerk hands them the paperwork, details of the hoodlum's itinerary.

"They checked in yesterday?  That's a lot of crap for one night..."  "Ok, let us use your phone..."

My first thought, of course, is "what's this about?  Drugs?  Some other contraband?  How far is their room from mine?!"  Then I think, "three cops, no cell phone?"

Back upstairs, the hallway is feeling more familiar.  A variety of scents greet me on each approach;  a lot of asian cooking;  the occasional waft of "herbs" and cigarets, despite the non-smoking label on my room.  I hear voices, people in this together; others alone.  From the street I can see small christmas trees perched in some of the extended-stay windows.

My studio is next to the stairs, so I only have one room of voices next to me.  I'm pretty certain the gentleman staying there is dying of emphysema.  At times I'm tempted to run next door and give him a good slap on the back, you know, to help him out.  But there's a woman with him, so, I'm pretty sure she's got it covered.

It took some perseverance on my part, but I seem to have mastered my room key.  Now if I could just remember to remove it from the door when I enter so as to not leave a large welcome mat for the afore mentioned hoodlums.

I have a "kitchen": fridge, two burner electric stove, sink, microwave; equipped with a micro coffee pot and an occasionally functioning toaster.  It works well enough.  I like it.  The space is mine for now.  There is comfort in that.  Amidst the commotion outside, it is quiet enough for me.  It has a desk, a bed, a table, a recliner, and a TV.  I have an expansive view of the auto dealership outside.  Kind of ironic, as that has been my one complaint about Dublin - the mass of auto dealerships.  Now, it is beginning to represent home.  Home for now.

I enter this space and I am alone.  Alone to think, sort, accept.  Accept this space in-between.  Breath it in.  Seek out it's beauty.  Commune in solitary, yet, with the others navigating this purgatory.  Feeling connected to them as they hang their strand of lights and cook their holiday noodles.  Sitting with them... Staring at the impending New Year.  Wishing us well.

Happy Holidays my sweet people-in-between.

Jagger Day

Last Friday, my daughter, Kinsey, and I headed out to Sacramento to support a benefit which was thrown for her baby brother, Jagger.

 Jagger was born with a very serious cardiopulmonary condition and has spent much of his infancy in the Children's Hospital.

It has been a tremendous hardship for his parents, Todd and Lisa, and his big brother, Ty.  I was thrilled when Lisa wrote to tell me that some friends of theirs were throwing a benefit to raise money for Jagger's medical expenses.  There was no question that Kinsey and I would be going.

It was hosted by a small deli/bar right next to Todd's family's dental lab.   When we arrived, the place was alive.

A fantastic band was playing.

A huge spread of donated auction items was laid out.


People everywhere.  I was amazed at the support.  I don't even think I know that many people, let alone would I expect them all to show up.  The event was so moving that Kinsey decided that November 13th was hence forth to be Jagger Day.

When I was a child, I remember being taught that angels waited outside worldly places like movie theaters, bowling alleys, dance clubs and bars.

That if we ventured inside such places, we'd be leaving our angelic protection behind to flirt with the devil.

Don't laugh.

I KNOW many of you are having flashbacks of lectures on worldly wiles followed by a good sing along of, maybe, "This Little Light of Mine".  Maybe?

Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that anyone who says the angels wait outside those doors, has obviously never walked through them...




I saw my share of angels that night.

Sex, Love and... "Hold on, I'll Google it"...

One of the motivating factors for me to come to terms with my thoughts on homosexuality, is the possibility that one, or more, of my three children might one day tell me that they are gay.  No, I do not suspect it in any of them at this point, but I have to consider that the potential exists.  Current statistics suggest that anywhere from 7% to 20% of the population is gay.  (This is a difficult element to measure since it relies largely on people's admission to being homosexual.)

So, if one of my children is gay, what will my response be?  More importantly, will they feel safe enough to be honest with me?  I already know, without reservation, that my arms will be wide open.  I will march at the front of every gay pride parade, will advocate and vote for their rights at every opportunity, and will welcome their loves into my heart and home.  Do they know this?  And, how will they respond to each other if one of them is gay?  Will they be compassionate?  There is a good statistical probability that one of their friends will "come out" at some point.  How will my children react?

I think the answer to those questions relies heavily on my attitude and actions NOW.  If I hide the reality of homosexuality, or sexuality in general, from them, then I am choosing to rely solely on external sources for their education.  If I want them to make wise sexual choices and respect themselves and others, then I have to be willing to expose them to what is out there, and be ready for their questions.  If I want them to become compassionate human beings, and humanitarians, then I must be one myself, and they must see it.

Please do not take this to mean that I am presenting my children with sexually explicit, age-inappropriate materials, in order to manipulate them into activists.  I am merely saying that I do not feel the need to shield them from the gay couple walking down the street, and I welcome their very normal questions about sex and love.  We have had many conversations on what "family" is and how every family is unique.  Our own family has non-traditional elements which, together, we have learned to embrace in very positive ways.  I do not handle these conversations perfectly.  I flounder and stutter.  I frequently say, "I'll get back to you on that," and the spend then rest of the day Googling for answers.   At one point, I even directed Kinsey to that book I bought her about her body with all the cartoon drawings in it.  But every new chat is a new opportunity and I do my best to let them know that the door is open.

And, in those discussions, the question, "can boys marry boys?" has presented itself.  Of course the typical preadolescent giggles accompany these conversations, as my boys can hardly imagine marrying girls, let alone other boys.  I answer honestly that some boys do love other boys and want to marry them but they can only do so in certain places because of the laws.  Their sweet, cherub response: "Why? That's so sad!"

Yes, loves, I agree.

To Be Continued...

Soapbox

In my youth I was quite vocal with my opinions and beliefs. A bit of a smart-ass really. Still am to some degree, but I've quieted down a lot. As I've aged, I've become exceedingly aware that people are rarely open to hearing opinions which oppose their own. I've also learned that, if I'm going to evolve at all, I have to be open enough to new information that I'm willing to alter my own ideals. This makes me redescent to state opinions which I might later lament.  Thirdly, as a result of certain stressful events in my life, I've developed a pretty healthy fear of conflict. So, in general, I avoid my soap boxes for the safety of the ground.

HOWEVER~

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever an form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such forms as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness." - United States Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.

So, despite my own fears and inadequacies, I am stepping back up onto my neglected soapbox. And, to all nine of you, who read my blog, I beg your open minds and hearts. I do empathize with your hesitancy to be open on this matter. I assure you, as a daughter of faith and religion, this is not an issue I have taken lightly, or formed my opinions/beliefs about easily.  I am aware that you might argue with me, or even "unfriend" me.  I welcome the discussion.  The unfriending will sting, but, I think I'm okay with that.

A great deal of research has been conducted on the issue of homosexuality in relatively recent years. Though, most would say we're just beginning to study it, some progress has been made. For instance, after half a century of research, assessing nearly every imaginable psychological cause of homosexuality, researchers have discovered that homosexuals are no more likely than heterosexuals to have been neglected, smothered, or sexually abused (Kinsey Institute studies). Studies by Bailey, 1995, and Golombok and Tasker, 1996, also showed that children raised by gay fathers or lesbian mothers were NO MORE LIKELY to be homosexual or, deviant, than those raised in heterosexual environments. Which leads me to wonder how a gay couple down the street, or even a homosexual teacher would have any notable effect on the future survival of heterosexual unions.

Both the American Psychiatric Association and the American Psychological Association state that homosexuality is not a mental illness and should not be treated as such. There are still some advocates for "curing" homosexuality, despite overwhelming evidence that these attempts to alter one's sexual orientation are ineffective and even harmful.

The majority of credible mental health professionals view sexual orientation much like handedness. We tend to be right or left handed regardless of our desire to be one or the other. There appears to be NO CHOICE involved in the matter. In fact, most homosexuals admit going through at least a period of time where they desperately wanted to deny their sexuality and many make great efforts to un-gay themselves. They try therapy, treatment centers, prayer, celibacy, heterosexual dating or even marriage. These attempts are universally unsuccessful. If they are lucky to have support, they eventually give in to the inevitable and "come out".  Unfortunately, there is a significantly high rate of suicide or attempted suicide in homosexuals, largely due to their inability to change themselves and their sense that they will lose everyone they love if they don't. Just sit with that for a minute. It is real and we ALL contribute to it, either positively or negatively.

While there are virtually no credible studies linking environmental factors to sexual orientation, there are many studies suggesting a possible genetic and/or prenatal influence (Zhang and Odenwald, 1995; Whitman and others, 1993; Bailey and Pillard 1991, 1995). It is also well documented that homosexuality exists widely throughout the animal kingdom where psychological and spiritual factors play almost no role at all.

Despite the wealth of information now available to us on this issue, it seems that far too many people are still uninformed and/or unwilling to consider that homosexuality is benign. They are deeply afraid of it and it's potential impact on what they deem to be a successful society. Somehow, they fear that if gays are allowed to get married, heterosexual people will no longer want to marry(??).  They fear that if their children are exposed to gay family models, that those children might then become sexually deviant, or worse, catch homosexuality! They might even make friends with a homosexual, or not cringe at the sight of a gay couple holding hands in public!!

Consider the mayhem?!! I mean family values might just flush right down the toilet! Just imagine! 40% to 50% of marriages might end in divorce (National Center for Health Statistics and the Census Bureau)! We might break out in an epidemic of fatherless children. 36.2 million people in America might go hungry (USDA, 2007). Drug warfare might become a problem (you know how those gays are with their gangs and drug trafficking!) I'm certain that teen pregnancy and STD's would rear their ugly heads. There's just no end to the disastrous possibilities that might ensue if we choose to love and accept homosexuals into our, now utopian, society.

Sarcasm aside, I do understand standing in that fear. I stood there for a good portion of my life. It never set well with me though. I always had trouble mingling my desire to love "others as myself" with my belief that homosexuality was an "abomination" in the eyes of God. The conflict disturbed me. I remember being thankful that I wasn't gay because at least I didn't have to figure it out. And I was able to keep it at arms length because I knew relatively few gay people and had managed to not have any meaningful relationships with them. But ultimately, I wasn't able to quell the inconsistencies of this issue in my mind. I tried to take comfort in the camp of "we love them, we just don't love what they 'do' (more accurately, who they are)."  That stance appeased me some, but, as I carried that philosophy to it's conclusion, I realized that, it's an oxymoron. Or, frankly, it's Bull Shit.

In my attempt to honestly love gay people, I began to see them as human beings that have hopes and dreams, love their families, and contribute to society. They hurt over broken relationships, strive to succeed at their jobs, are creative, thought-provoking, intelligent, and loving. Some of them are screwed up. Some of them are cruel. Much like the rest of us. They do not have "agendas" to make the world gay. They just want to be loved and accepted for who they are and have the same opportunities for safety, life, liberty and happiness as the rest of the "created equals".

I can not address all that I want to in just one blog. As it is, this is quite long and I hope you've made it this far. So, I will continue this later. I just have one request for now. Get to know them. Not from a safe distance. Up close. With your heart. We'll talk more later.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Flawed

We are flawed. We all express our worst self at one time or another. I'm not talking about the bad days, where we say something stupid or trip over some common failure. I mean the big stuff. The dark truths that we don't want to admit about ourselves and don't want to believe exist in our beloveds.

Mother... father... lover... child.

It would follow, that most of us will be bitterly disappointed by, or will disappoint, someone we love. It happens all the time. We've either experienced it or witnessed it. We've either been devastated, humiliated, appalled, or deeply ashamed because of it.

So, when the bomb drops, and if it hasn't yet, it will; what's next?

At first it's quiet. Almost numbing. You're there, seeing it, hearing it, but this must be someone else. This can't be MY story. And it sinks. Deeper. Spreading like hot lava through your veins. Suddenly, you long for the mundane. You long to just have to unload the dishwasher, study for that test, do a grocery run with your sole concern being what's for dinner.

And, though you'd like to disappear, you are there. In it. Left with choices. How do I get through tomorrow? Today? The next five minutes? What do I say to the people? The ones that care, that don't, that are hurt, are angry, are cruel? Will they condemn? Will I? Forgive? What the hell does that even mean!? What does that feel like?! Will I feel better if I punish? Am punished? Will I recover?

Choices... Questions...

Flawed beings that we are, we tend to love in terribly flawed ways. Sometimes we truly love, but hurt our beloveds anyway. Other times, we hurt others in the name of love but are void of it entirely. It can become confusing. It fosters the need for walls. Safe-havens from the potential disappointments. Yet, as flawed as our love is, it is still our life-force. We need it.

What is love really? What role does love play in this mess? Is it really love before they've seen your demons and you've seen theirs? Before you know just how ugly they can be behind the beautiful? To love when the darkness sets in. To see it through. When it is received as well as given. This love heals. It provides hope; recovery. It is not used as a ploy for change but persists in spite of it.

Truth is, profound growth can be born out of our flaws. The exposure which results from failure is raw and honest. It throws hands in the air. It is an opportunity to surrender to change; to decide to live and love with the full knowledge that people are broken, imperfect, habitual, fragile, and insanely...

BEAUTIFUL.