The Gatherer

For years, I have operated under the delusion that my husband is the pack rat of this pairing.  Apparently, my capacity for denial is extremely well developed.  This past week, we have made 6 trips to donate “stuff”.  We’ve only begun to de-clutter.  I am the source of the acquisition of most of this “stuff.”  I am an amazing gatherer.

All this stuff has been making me a bit crazy.  The clutter tugs at my mind with confusion.  What to focus on?  What is important?   What to keep?  What to give away?  These are important questions that have often been lost in the”stuff” that floats around me like a Sargasso Sea.  I am the center of this stagnant spot.  With admission, comes a wee bit of shame, but mostly relief.  When I begin to see clearly, I will make better choices.  Delusion:  it’s time for you to go.

While I am an amazing gatherer and I’ve learned how to gather on a dime and make a profit on this flotsam, it’s not helping me any more.  It became an insulation against the world.  Building a fortress of others’ cast offs has been a simple way of protecting myself.  This stuff insulated me from feelings of loss, disparity, injustice, rejection, poverty.  It’s time to look this stuff in the eye and see it for what it is.  It’s looking back at me and helping me see that feelings of loss, disparity, injustice. . . are not ends in themselves, they are steps along the path.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel.  By giving things away, I’m clearing what has blocked the light.

“Light!  I’m so happy to see you.”

“I thought I’d find you by holding on.  I was wrong.  It’s all about letting go.”

Write Me Beautiful

My soul has been weary.  I dream about being someone else, having a new identity,  going into witness protection.  What I’ve been witnessing isn’t pretty.  I need protection.

Decisions should never be made when life is too heavy.  Such decisions arise out of panic, not reason.  A knee jerk reaction to life can end up kicking one’s own behind.  Staying calm in a world full of crazy is more than a challenge.   Last night, in my sleep, both knees and legs start dancing like fleas in a hot skillet.  Poor husband, who is awake staring at the cracks in the ceiling and pondering their significance, witnesses his wife appear to run while laying down.  Sleeping with me is never boring.

The timing of this activity is everything.

Just the other day, I was demonstrating to my husband what HIS jimmy leg is like.  When he is overly tired, he has a leg that jerks in a pattern that eludes my capture.  Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often.  If I’m not asleep when it starts, I have to move to the couch to get some shut eye.  Now in addition to hitting him in the head, sitting up and giving commands, raising my hand and talking about absolutely anything in my sleep, I can add running…sleep running.  I’m way ahead in this insane contest of who can be the most active bed partner.

My husband has my deep and sincere sympathy.  I’d have a hard time sleeping with me.

Notice how I went from soul weary to challenges with self-acceptance.  I’ve been miserable struggling with both and seeing little if any progress, until today.

Today, I had met 3 strangers who gave me messages of hope and one hug.   In those brief meetings, all excess fell away, all the struggle began to have a meaning, even if I can’t see it yet.  While I’ve felt like I’ve been sleep walking through a nightmare, I have been busy.  I have been making a positive difference in ways that I failed to understand.  And the world, that I often find so inadequate has been busy showing me the things that I need to see, even when I didn’t want to see them.

For days, I refrain from writing because, the words aren’t beautiful or inspiring.  They are heavy and full of whining.  I want to write more.  I want to give some thing beautiful, some thing precious and hopeful in my words and when I can’t I feel frustrated and empty inside.    At the same time, it is important to me to be REAL.  No sugar coated platitudes, or simple-minded denial for this gal.

As my evening begins I find these words on Pinterest:

“So build yourself as beautiful as you want your world to be. Wrap yourself in light and give yourself away with your heart, your brush, your march, your art, your poetry, your play. And for every day your paint the war, take a week and paint the beauty, the color, the shape of the landscape you’re marching towards.  Everyone knows what you’re against.  Show them what you are for.”   — Andrea Gibson, Evolution

God’s timing is perfect.  I’m going to write my world beautiful!    It’s time to remind myself what I’m for.


Not writing publicly, I have been writing privately.  I spill words on pages.  They blink back at me filled with sorrow, rage and jealousy.  I have a hard time seeing these words as mine.  It is wise to keep them private.  Finally, they start to sputter and lose their sting.  I turn to embrace them.

This morning, I walk.  An old back injury causes me to walk on the outside of my feet.  In time, the muscles along the inside of my foot atrophy.  They begin to telegraph pain along the nerves like little flashes of lightening.  They trick me by going numb when ever they please.  When the kids were small, I was told that surgery could help but that I’d be off my feet for 6 to 8 weeks. That was not an option.  Instead, I developed my own treatment.  I force myself to walk with all my foot touching the ground.

At first, I have to concentrate.  I can think only of walking and forcing my entire foot to carry my weight as it touches the ground.  The soles of my feet burn.    My feet, my walk, my soul remind me that some times pain is necessary.  Some times we just have to push through it.  Pain, sorrow, anger and jealousy are not bad in themselves.  They have valuable lessons to teach.

Lessons come from unlikely places.

On Tuesday, a book in the library catches my eye:  Assertiveness for Earth Angels.  The central premise seems odd to me.  The author maintains that once upon a time many people were angels in heaven.  At some point, these earth angels are sent to earth by God to help other people.  A picture of Joan of Arc surrounded by two cherubs graces the cover.  Was I once an angel?  I really, really doubt that.  I can think of no theological precedent.

And yet, inside this book, she reminds me that I am a being of Light.  My body telegraphs the truth of these words.  A warm feeling begins in the pit of my stomach and energy surges from the top of my head and the ends of my fingers and toes.  With a physical reaction this strong, I know that the words have hit home and something about being a creature of Light connects with my own reality in a profound way.

This Creature of Light begins her walk feeling like a broken marionette.  The nerves in my legs crackle and sting.  Moving feels awkward.  I hope that the passing traffic doesn’t notice how out of sync my body seems with this beautiful day.  I feel more like a creature of the shadows.

And then, a woman at the intersection pulls forward to make a left turn while I have the walk signal.  Suddenly, realizing I have the right of way, she backs up a bit to make way for me.  I smile at her brightly and mouth a thanks.  Her face awakens in the most wonderful smile.  Walking in the light can be such a satisfying thing.

As I walk, pushing those lazy muscles down toward the earth, I become more grounded.  The creature of the shadows needs a rest.  It’s done its job.   I stop, close my eyes and turn my face toward the sun.  Light feels right.


An Accounting

So much of my life has been based in want, lack of abundance, need.

This last week in an overwhelming moment of need and anxiety, I knelt along side my bed and prayed the simplest of prayers,

“God help me.  God help us.”

It felt a little dramatic.  My knees ached.  I got up slowly.  My body hasn’t been a temple.  Its been more of a dump.   Immediate feedback from the Almighty was a deafening silence.  I crawled into bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.

A few days forward and I awake before all others.  There are a hundred different tasks that await me but the call to sit and open myself up to listen to the Divine are too great.  I’ll feel guilty if I don’t comply.  This feeling opens into an abyss of obligation and responsibility.  Its weight presses on the top of my head.  My head throbs in reply.  My body isn’t a temple.  I am guilty.  Mea culpa.  Mea maxima culpa.

The memory of my recent knee-position plea to God for help surfaces with an unusual strength.  I felt a little silly then and I feel more silly now.  My noisy mind resists these moments of quiet.  It raises up an annoying static of negative self talk and recriminations.  Some times, my mind is a real drag.

Suddenly, one thought becomes crystal clear.  All this mind noise has been a huge distraction.  It creates a poverty within.  It fills me with unfulfilled desire, inadequacy and pain.  They are illusions.  The shift in my life that I’ve been praying and longing for isn’t something external.  It is a change in being.  The circumstances and events that have felt like burdens, like punishments, are vehicles of growth and change.  My life isn’t flawed.  I am not tragically flawed.   My perceptions have created limits, walls of misery.  My perception has been limited.  My life is filled with opportunity.

Desperately, I want to avoid the reality of this last sentence.  I squirm under the responsibility until I suddenly realize that this too is the product of faulty perception.  The ledger of my life won’t be filled with monetary entries outlining my lack and how I overspent.  No, my ledger will detail the economy of being.  What did I become when life provided me the opportunity for growth and development.  How did I deal with the challenges I encountered?  Did I expand or contract?

The barrier between me and who I want to be is largely illusion.  I keep showing up for this party in a tattered costume with a mask covering who I am.  No wonder I’m not having any fun.

On a sunny Sunday morning, in a sleepy peaceful silence, I receive a pure gift, a splinter of enlightenment.   I am enough.  Life awaits.



“You cannot get sick enough to help sick people get better. You cannot get poor enough to help poor people thrive. It is only in your thriving that you have anything to offer anyone. If you’re wanting to be of an advantage to others, be as tapped in, turned in, turned on as you can possibly be.”


– Esther Abraham-Hicks



Ask me about not thriving and I can offer you a blue print.   Thriving is something that demands some attention and exploration.  Now that I’m certain what not thriving means, I’m ready to thrive.  I shall not thrive alone.  I have not suffered alone.  There are many like me and many who are not.  Yet, we are still bound together.

Living in a world full of happenstance, crisis and chaotic luck isn’t easy.  I look for causes and reasons and sometimes they don’t exist.  It’s easy to blame others.  It’s easy to blame myself.

Surprisingly,  I’ve discovered that some people also blame the down-on-their-luck types for their own troubles.  This is a slippery slope.  Blame doesn’t solve anything.  Compassion does.

Yesterday, I listened to someone blame the uninsured for their own problems.  For those of us living outside the boundaries of  “normal”,  options that others take for granted don’t exist for a huge variety of reasons   Most of those reasons have nothing to do with problems of our own making.

When I start worrying about what others are entitled to, I remind myself of the women coughing up blood in the “poor clinic.”   She was consistently refused treatment at the hospital and at the clinic and had spent 3 months going back and forth looking for help.  In between blood-filled coughs, she cried quietly.  I wanted to be repulsed but I could not.  It didn’t matter if she was a two-bit prostitute who was a heavy drug user.  In that moment she was a human being who needed care.  In my heart, it felt criminal to deny her this.

I don’t remember what I said to her.  I just knew that I had to make a human connection.  I had to remind her that some one cared and while I couldn’t fix her problems, I could acknowledge them and give her a few seconds of dignity and human respect.  That was several years ago.  I doubt she is still alive.

For me, the only path to thriving is found in a path that acknowledges and accepts the needs of others and that honors my need to be of service.  No one thrives in a vacuum.  We share our lives, our time on earth, with billions of other people, none of which will walk this way again.  The needs of others affects me.  They pull against the intricate web of life and whether I want to or not, I feel those tugs.

It isn’t my place to judge another’s worth and whether they are deserving of food or healthcare or. . .  Am I so good so pious that I deserve something that others do not?  Isn’t their need reason enough to reach out?  When Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes, did he feed some and not others?  No, he simply fed the hungry.

Some times I fear that people  get so bogged down in  their political opinions that they leave their humanity at the door.  We want to be right and we fail to be moral.   We justify our refusal to help by citing the abuses of the few.  We define the effectiveness of a system or a bureaucracy by what it fails to do.  We forget that nothing and no one is perfect and demand perfection in a world where it simply doesn’t exist.

I’ve wasted too many years trying to hide behind my imperfections, terrified that some one would see me for what I really am:  flawed, imperfect, some times selfish, judgmental, harshly critical.  When I turn that fear inside out and aim it at others, we all lose.  No one thrives, least of all, me.

To thrive, I need to keep my eyes wide open and my heart more open still.  I will never forget the rich soil of failure that cracked my life wide open and showed me a better way.    It’s time to thrive.  I won’t thrive alone.


Having downsizing forced on us isn’t all bad.  I’ve started going through things in preparation for a big garage sale this spring.  I need to liquidate as many assets as possible.  Getting rid of clutter is liberating.  Part of me is enjoying it, albeit from a distance.  The enjoyment fights with occasional flashes of victimhood that are grossly unpleasant.  There are a lot of memories and dreams wrapped in with the stuff of our lives.  It can be hard to let go.

I would prefer the down sizing to be a conscious choice.  I’ve spent the last few years fascinated by the Tiny House movement, Minimalists and the people that love them, and those people brave enough to live an alternative lifestyle disconnected from popular consumer culture and based on simple values.

While that life calls to me, I  have sat in my broken recliner watching mindless TV more than I ever want to admit.  Escapism calls me in many forms.  It’s easy to lose oneself in someone else’s drama i.e. the love of TV.  I also know the power of the cupcake or potato chip to hold the fear temporarily at bay.  Chocolate -covered cinnamon bears are my new guilty pleasure.  I am not proud.

I am honest and I know what areas of my life are demanding attention.  I also know I need to get serious and deal with the challenges ahead without breaking no matter how tempting that option may feel at times.

Recently,  a wise mentor has told me that I need to find my joy.  Getting through a day was hard.  Fun was so elusive it all but disappeared.  I felt grumpy, angry.   Tears were never far away.  While I’m still in transition, I realized that despite input to the contrary, I did deserve happiness, joy.  Joy is good.  It doesn’t have a price tag.  It’s free for the taking.

It is possible to be poor and happy.  Not that being poor doesn’t increase problems exponentially but those problems don’t have the right to crowd out everything else.

Yesterday, as I drove to work, I looked at the sunrise in the east as it painted the sky a gorgeous pink behind Mt. Hood.  This display was so breathtaking I can not describe it in words.  It was free and the opening to my day, a simple and pure gift that for a few moments gave me a great peace and hope and even joy.  Wordless, priceless, joy.  No one can take that from me.

Choose the Light

Choices.  There are too many of them.

Overwhelmed, I avoid making any.  I try and fool myself into thinking that I don’t have many choices but that isn’t true.  The smart part of me knows it.

Lately, I avoid writing to avoid understanding.  Confusion feels familiar, almost necessary.  The idea of lifting the veil and seeing what is behind the curtain is too much.

Yesterday, in Fred Meyer’s an elderly woman on the toilet paper aisle needs to talk.  I see it in her eyes, in her posture.  She is lonely.  Naturally outgoing, she seems lost in a sea of strangers and reaches out to me to make a connection.  I listen and smile politely aware of her great need, happy to fulfill some function, to be that friendly face in the crowd.

Suddenly, everyone in the store decides they must come down this same aisle.  The elderly woman isn’t finished talking.  She is unaware of the crowd pressing against our space, a space that isn’t ours, one that we must share.  I try to steer her to safety but she blocks my path eager to talk, needing me to listen.  Impatience pushes in behind me.  A woman gently nudges me with her cart.  I am annoyed and understanding all in the same moment.  Like her, I would feel impatient if someone was blocking my path.  I would not bump my cart into them.  This level of rudeness bothers me.

Worse yet, my elderly woman is telling me of an old trauma.  The woman used to work in a grocery store, actually owned one with her husband until the big corporations forced them out of business.  She continued working as a clerk until she was 75.  She stands before me with more energy and vigor than I.  She must be hugging 80.  Over 20 years ago, an unpleasant encounter with a person of a different ethnic group, impacted her so strongly that she still needs to talk about it.  I’m torn.  I hope no one will hear.  I understand how she feels.  I also know that the nationality or race or religion doesn’t matter, rude people come in every shape, size and flavor i.e. like the woman using her cart as a battering ram.  I want to be any where but there trapped by the toilet paper, kleenex,adult diapers and limited humans.

For a split second, I consider gently telling my elderly acquaintance, I’m not comfortable with what could be perceived as bigotry.  It might be the right thing to do.  It may not be.  It won’t change her view.   She’s invested years in harboring the injury, in blaming a nationality for the transgressions of the few.  Injustice was done years ago and it continues to be done by the victim who has unfairly judged others from that day forward.

The woman behind effectively pushes me aside with her cart.  Her sigh is almost a snort.

“PLEASE, get out of my way,” she huffs.

I apologize, automatically.  I don’t like the fact that I am blocking others.  My intention wasn’t to block or delay.  I, also, don’t like being rammed by the cart and for a split second I consider telling her so but why cause a scene?  I wanted to listen to a woman who needed someone to validate her, to accept her and all her biases.  It was what I was called to do.  The woman behind me had no idea what was in my heart and that I was blocked by women of limited awareness on all sides.  The more impatient one did not comprehend or perceive anything in me other than a road block.  I was unruly furniture, a problem to be forced out of the way.

My discomfort rose when I finally parted from this tangle.  The incident haunted me. At times, I am both of these women.  Bias often limits my perception.  I can be impatient with strangers.  What can seem justifiable and right might often be only a reflection of my limitations, my limited perspective.  My head spins.  I long for peace in a world that struggles against it.  I long for peace and my own soul often fights against it.  Opposition, conflict is easy.  Fairness, compassion, love are not.

We live in a horrible paradise.  Beautiful roses have thorns.  Wind and rain can destroy or save.  Work is hard.  We envy.  Our lack, our limitations can make us mean, thoughtless, brutal and harsh.  Facing our limitations can open a vault of despair.  Acts of kindness can get us in trouble.  Progress can run us over.   Worldly success can pass us by.  We ache, we cry for all that we are not and blame others outside ourselves for the darkness that lives inside each of us.

We forget who we really are.  We forget that in a paradise lost, there is also a paradise regained.  We fail to understand the wisdom of opposites.  We try to harvest them from our minds and hearts so that we can indulge in the illusion that we know better.  We reap what we sew.  We lose contact with the Divine Spark, with Love, with God.  We want to understand something we can not and make ourselves miserable in the process.   We convince ourselves that we are victims of the darkness.  We fail to choose the light.

The Calling

For months, I’ve been trying to escape the obvious.  I dance all around the issue.  I procrastinate. I avoid.  I know in the fiber of my being that I need to write about spiritual things.  I need to have the courage of my convictions and publicly commit to a belief in God, to write about my reluctance to allow God to have center stage.  I am ashamed to admit that belief in God often feels embarrassing to me, like I’m some ignorant back woods peasant.  I’ve been afraid to be ridiculed for my profound belief, so I’ve tried to ignore it and down play it.  It’s just not working for me.

To those people I love, who question religion, who challenge God’s existence, I have no intention of insisting we believe the same thing.  After all, I am rational enough to know that I can’t prove the existence of God and that it is possible I am wrong. (For the curious, consider Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of God if you enjoy theological mind candy.)

My life may end in an exhalation of breath and the energy that was me, will return to the earth and become part of the soil in centuries hence.  I’m really okay with that.  In the meantime, my belief is grounded in something as solid and ephemeral as my personal experience with God.  If it’s fiction, then I am delighted with the illusion because this Divine Illusion is the only thing holding my life together and giving it meaning.  I love the God-Story. . . believing I am infinitely loved by a Creator. . . believing I am saved through no merit of my own.

Trying to ignore God’s place in my life has really gotten me in trouble.

Who am I kidding except myself?

Did I really think that I could ever remove God from center stage given my history?  Can a leopard really change its spots?  Can a simple girl from a German Catholic town enter a convent and then leave without giving God a second thought in all the years since? (Insert an emphatic, NO!  I CAN’T. here, Carol.)

My understanding of God has certainly morphed over the years.  I’ve had lots of experiences.  I’ve tried to elude “The Hound of Heaven” but the biblical references, theological asides and my personal belief keeps creeping through my life and my words like veins in a body.  And like veins in a body, this belief is my life blood.  It’s time to get real.

Yes, I know that I’m not the ideal spokesperson.  Yes, I know that I’m a fallible, often crabby, cynic.  I’m certainly not always kind or understanding. There are people, some close to me, that I don’t get along with and don’t even want to.  I’m hopelessly human and maybe that’s what makes me uniquely qualified to enter the realm of the spiritual.  God knows I have the inclination, the desire.  God knows I love words and have a bit of the gift of the blarney (even though I’m as German as a potato pancake.) God also knows that I’ve been very busy trying to avoid following the calling of my own heart largely out of fear.  No one wants to look like an idiot and feeling like one is even worse.  Looking like an idiot because I have a conviction that God is calling me forth is so scary that I haven’t wanted to go there.

Unfortunately, everything has been blocked due to my reluctance to follow my heart, the heart that God holds in his/her hand.  So, what the heck!  It’s time to go out on that limb, that limb of conviction and know that it might get sawed right off.  Nothing is more important to me and my life than the spiritual, than the belief I carry in my heart that God is love and that my primary calling is to explore what that means and to be willing to share that journey with others.  It doesn’t mean I’ll always live up to my end of the bargain.  I will fail at Love more times than I’ll succeed just like I may fail at becoming a more spiritual person and an occasional spiritual writer (but my instinct is telling me this won’t be so.)

I’ve failed enough over the years at a lot of different things to know that failure, while grossly unpleasant, won’t kill me.  Failure has been the most effective teacher for this potato pancake.  Bring it on, God.  You’ve got my full attention.  I’m on that limb and I’m holding the saw.  It’s up to you, Lord.  You win.  I cave.  Show me what to do, what to say, which way to go.  I’ve got some failing to do and Your Name is going to be all over it.



From the Ragamuffin Gospel

Some time this last year I read a book by David Timm entitled The Power of Blessing.  In that book, Timm references a quote from Brennan Manning’s Ragamuffin Gospel.  Manning was a priest, author and wrote candidly about his struggles with alcoholism.  Manning’s humble realism and poetic soul appeals to me.  I copied the following down from Timm’s book which quotes Manning on page 19.  The piece of paper on which I wrote these words is passed around from pile to pile.  The edges are starting to wear down.  I reread it often because I can’t help myself.  I especially love the line, “unsteady disciples whose cheese is falling off their cracker.”

I know exactly what that means.

Lately, it’s been hard to write.  I’m afraid too.  Opposition, criticism can really eat away at one’s self esteem, one’s courage.

Life is also crazy busy.  I am drug behind the freight train of life struggling to climb aboard.  This isn’t the way I imagined it would be.  There are lots of moments of joy in between moments of grave disappointment.  The cheese on my cracker is Swiss.  Joy is the cheese.  Disappointment are the holes.  Manning reminds me that this is as it should be.  He gives me hope that even though I’m a scalawag with slipping cheese, I am loved beyond imagining.

This is the essence of the Christmas message.  The Nativity Story is the story of simple people, a simple God, and the most humble of beginnings. Love was born into this world in a barn. Imagine the smell of the animals, the flies, the little rodents who love to share spaces like these.  Imagine no snow in the Middle East.  Imagine hot manure.  Imagine a helpless new born baby beside it.

This Good News is the Ragamuffin Gospel.

“The Ragamuffin Gospel was written for the bedraggled, beat-up, burnt-out.

It is for the sorely burdened who are still shifting the heavy suitcase from one hand to the other.

It is for the wobbly and weak-kneed who know they don’t have it all together and are too proud to accept the handout of amazing grace.

It is for the inconsistent, unsteady disciples whose cheese is falling off their cracker.

It is for the poor, weak, sinful men and women with hereditary faults and limited talents.

It is for the earthen vessels who shuffle along on feet of clay.

It is for the bent and the bruised who feel that their lives are a grave disappointment.

It is for the smart people who know they are stupid and honest disciples who admit they are scalawags.”


I can recycle that scrap of paper.  I write the Ragamuffin Gospel on my soul.

Thanks, Fr. Manning.  I’m beginning to understand the true joy of Christmas.

Facing the Nation on Sunday Morning

By 7 a.m.  I am awake.  By 7:20, I’m up.  I turn on the TV to watch CBS’ Sunday Morning.  The last segments are mostly happy ones.  I feel happy!

Then, I watched “Face the Nation.”  This is one face that would have been happier not to face the nation on a beautiful Sunday morning.

Maybe, Mr. Schieffer had two of the biggest nincompoops to represent the opposing sides.  It is clear that they were politicians in the worst sense of the word.  Mr. Schieffer would ask an intelligent question, one that I would have loved to hear a clear answer too, and both guys wouldn’t answer them.  It was enough for me to question my sanity but only for a moment.

What bothers me more is that these two “elite” Americans aren’t “the smartest eggs in the carton.”

At one point, Schieffer presented an analogy and asked for comment.

The following is my paraphrasing and in no way claims to capture the actual words of the interview.  For that, I am grateful.  I’ve got enough nonsense rattling around my head without adding to it.

Shieffer [It would be like my saying that I would like Congress to support funding for a cure for cancer and if they don’t approve my pet funding, I refuse to vote to pass the budget.  Isn’t that what is happening now?]

Nincompoop:  [Well, Bob, I actually do support cancer research and have actively sought funding through Congress, blah, blah, blah.]

Shieffer:  [That’s not my point, Senator.]

Nincompoop: [You bring up a very good point, Bob.  If only Mr. Obama would be willing to talk, we could resolve this. Blah, blah, blah]

I didn’t know that you could be that off topic on a nationally televised interview (1/2 of which is rescheduled for 2:05 a.m. Monday morning because of the football game.  Wait! This isn’t a bad idea since Schieffer was the only one making any sense.)

Apparently, you can be that bad of an impromptu speaker and still get elected.  My awakening was not yet complete, I hadn’t completely accepted that you can be that “slow on the uptake” and actually hold a position in Congress but then again, I hadn’t really thought about it.  I just hoped there were smart people in charge some where.  What was I thinking?

I deliberately close my ears to most political blabber.  It worries me.  It upsets me.   I don’t want to know how a few nincompoops in a city/district clear across the country can screw things up for so many people so easily without a bloomin’ clue.  Thanks for shattering another illusion, Face the Nation.

Wait!  Face the Nation!  There is a silver lining.

You made me feel like a genius compared to those two.  Maybe, I should run for political office.  Think of what a world it could be if every Senator and Congress person, were smart enough?  Think of what a strong nation we could create if normal, every day people put to use the knowledge they have about what it means to be the common American and applied it to the larger problems that plague this country.  Think of the amazing country that might develop if honesty, integrity and fairness drove politics and not the hunger for reelection.

Maybe, this was all a bad dream.  I can hope, can’t I?

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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