The Write Way

After years of denial and avoidance, I finally have to admit to myself that I am a writer.  All the rest of the things I am, some of them good and some not so good are secondary to this.  Words arch and loop in my head in graceful swirls or jolt across the screen of my mind as frightening shapes casting cold shadows.  Being a writer is part of who I am.  It is how I’m wired.

It doesn’t matter if I ever publish or earn a dime.  I’m still a writer.

It’s time to act like one.

So, to this end,  I will write more.

I will make time to write.

I will take a writing class.

I will seek out others like myself.

I will post more entries on my blog. (They will be shorter and hopefully sweeter.)

I will get out of my own way.  I will write.

Everything has been too hard because I was afraid to be myself.  It’s time to do things differently.  It’s time to write myself home.

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.


The urge to put words to paper often overcomes me.  Then, I remember how uncomfortable I became, how opening oneself up and putting it out there for the world to see put me at risk and contributed to what was to follow.

Not everyone liked what I wrote.  Writing and sharing made my world less friendly, more hostile.  Yet, I opened myself up to it knowing what was likely and was still surprised when the inevitable happened.  Maybe, I was looking for a reason to stop.  I had begun to feel as if I had nothing to say, nothing of value to suggest.  If I made others responsible for not writing, I didn’t have to face what I felt about what I was producing.  Writing had become a way of making myself feel better at a time in my life when so many things were falling apart.

At this extremely challenging time in my life, I have learned a great deal about human nature.  People who I expected to be loving and supportive are not.  I had to process the hurt, the grief and find hope.

I, who can easily sit in judgment of others found myself at the end of others poor opinion.  I was blamed for my own problems, given loads of advice and experienced rejection and anger when I wouldn’t do what others thought I should.  Since, I’m not exactly new to this earth, you would think I’d have been better prepared.

I am the first to admit that yes, humans, me included, often create problems for ourselves and then invest lots of energy into maintaining them.  Problems become a mantel we don’t break through.  We allow problems to define us.  They give us reasons to stop striving, to stop reaching beyond ourselves, to stop growing.

For a long time, I’ve been stuck in trying to figure out why others outside the problem have such an emotional investment in it.  As interesting as the answer may be, it really isn’t important.  Their reactions are their responsibility.  I have enough on my plate.  I allowed my problems to become excuses.  Problems can be reasons but when they become excuses something is wrong.

My limited readership is most engrossed in what I write when I write honestly about the nuts and bolts of my life.  While I prefer distant, philosophical fluff, it isn’t nearly as interesting.  I’m afraid to write about the real and maybe that is the only reason that I should.

My writing is imperfect.  I am often embarrassed by it but I can write moderately well and I feel drawn to do so.  I know what it’s like to be me.  I spend a lot of time thinking.  I spend a lot of time finding ways to cope.   This is something I know a lot about.  This is what I will try to share in the days and weeks ahead.  The world is often a cold and hostile place.  Some times that hostility and indifference comes from those close to you.  As painful as this can be, it provides an opportunity for growth, a chance to rise above.  It can open a pathway to being a more loving presence in a world desperately in need of redemption and love.

Violence begets violence.

Hate fuels hate.

Negative talk creates negative thoughts and feelings.

Love is the only force that can heal.

Love can be tough.  It may not look like love.  Love may create boundaries and say “no.”  People may accuse you of being unloving, of not doing the right thing.  They may tell you that you’re wrong or selfish.   They can be wrong.  Dead wrong.

It’s time to face my fear and begin again.

(Now, to tackle my fear of falling through the sub roofing and get up there with Andy to see if we can get some tarp to cover the roof where the rain is pouring in.  Welcome to my world.  There is rarely a dull moment.)


Only Human

The opinions stated in my blog are only opinions.  I am not always right, kind or fair, no matter how much I desire to be.  At times, the frustration I feel may impede my better judgment and my better self.  I may be small and petty.  I may be hurting and in that hurt lash out at some one or something unfairly.  Typically, I work hard not to do those things.  Occasionally, I fail.

While I write about lots of theories, ideas and opinions based on my subjective experience, the real purpose of this blog remains.  I am sharing my reflections on my human experience.  I will not always be “right.”

Lately, I’ve had several people obviously upset with me.  I suspect it may have started here.

As much as I dislike upsetting people and passive aggressive responses,  it is going to happen.  I have a right to my opinion.  I have a right to be occasionally wrong.  My life, my experience are mine alone.  We will not always agree.

In a normal day, I take in the opinions and subjective feelings of others.  I often disagree but due to my position, my natural inclinations, I rarely challenge those ideas.  Often, I can not.  I do not hold a position of authority in my day job.  In fact, I am often treated with mild suspicion and thinly veiled contempt.  I have a specific job to do but lack the power and the tools to do a good job of accomplishing my main objective.  I witness the destruction of inflexible thinking.  I see how investment in a viewpoint often hides the forest from the trees.  I hear. . .”They should________.”  And often I agree but should doesn’t address the problem.  What is done is done.  What can we all do now in this moment that is in the best interest of as many people as possible.  How can we put aside our individual ideas and biases and get this job done?

I may be more judgmental than average.  I know I can be petty and selfish.  I was given a mind, albeit limited, as a gift.  I’m expected to use it by all that is Holy and Just.  I am drawn to write and at present have only this blog as an outlet for the ideas and the words that churn within me.  I may be the worst thing to happen to the written world, yet have the right of expression.  Upsetting people is the last thing I want to do but sometimes it is going to happen.

I stumble through life, as a limited human,  I will fall.  If I look up and away from myself, I will see others falling, standing, marching and flat on the ground.  I am not alone.  We all stumble toward a promised land or the great abyss.  Our perception frames our experience.  Opposing viewpoints can open doors to a greater understanding.   We all stumble.  We all fall.  I am sorry if something I have said or done has hurt you.  Hurting people is not my intention.  Reflection on my personal experience,  trying to frame my life in more positive terms, trying to be a little bit better person than I was the day before, these are my objectives.  I share these only because I can, because words are often my only currency.

In my struggle to get by (and it is a very real struggle) there are days when the words seem to be the only thing that anchor me to something greater. Sharing them is often profoundly stupid.    So many of the choices I made have brought me to middle age with no safety net:  never enough money, no career, no retirement.  So many things outside my control have contributed to my situation as well.  Embarrassment, blame, shame are all impediments to persevering.  At times, I indulge in them.  Often, I dip my toes into self-pity and feel like a victim.  Old habits die hard.  I just want to crawl into a corner and lick my wounds.

Something inside me, won’t let me.  Something inside me takes risks and often loses only to try again.  Something inside me drives me to document this struggle and the small victories here, despite my embarrassment and my reluctance to be vulnerable.  Something inside me knows that my experiences, while uniquely mine, are profoundly human.  Profoundly human is something that taps into others’ awareness of their own limited humanity.   At times, my words and anothers’ feelings intersect.  That moment of connection is why I write, no matter how rare, no matter how uncomfortable I may be.

We are saved and forever in need of salvation.   I am not alone.  You are not alone.


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.

It’s the Fumes!

Some days, I’ve got to write or lose my mind.  Tonight is one of those times.  This is my therapy, the way I process my feelings, the way I find something amusing in things that don’t make me laugh when they happen.  I want to laugh to prevent dissolving into a blathering puddle of tearful nonsense.

Just after we sit down to dinner, we hear our son yelling from the garage.  It is not a good yelling.  The fact that he is asking for his sister, sends me running.  It isn’t good.

We have a rule for our children about coming home when it gets dark.  A certain boy seems to have a very difficult time with this.  We’ve come up with some consequences but they haven’t proven effective.  After tonight I’m bringing out the big guns. . . a howitzer or maybe a nuclear missile.   I need time to process this.  It’s just not funny yet.

The panicked yelling began because of the accidental spilling of some nasty finish stripper (chemicals in a can not a woman from Finland working a shady job)  that used to live a quiet life on the workbench in the garage.  Just thinking about it is starting to make me itch and cough again.  Oh, now, I think my lips are burning.  I really need to go to my happy place.

Tardy boy stands in the garage slightly dripping.  Apparently, the falling deck stripper stuff exploded as it hit the garage floor.  His coat, his only warm coat got the worst of it.  I’m afraid it and the rest of his clothes will have to go to the garbage dump in the sky.  The smell is overwhelming and then, I see the mess.  “Andy,”  I yell.  “I’m going to need your help.”  Poor husband.  He just sat down to dinner.

In case of emergency, my initial job is the calmer.  I pull out all the stops trying to sound calm.  I’m desperately wanting to feel calmer but the fumes are getting to me.  I find myself repeating my words in a silly attempt to convince myself I know what I’m doing.  I don’t have a clue.  I don’t know how to begin to clean this up.

“Take off all your clothes by the washer except your underwear and go and take a shower right now,”  I say with conviction.

I just want him out of the way so I don’t start spiraling into a tirade about carelessness and getting home before it gets dark and following the rules and trying to be more careful.   Once the cork is out of that bottle there may be no stopping me.

“I’ve got no idea what to do to clean this up,” I say, once the boy is gone.  In my mind, I see myself running up and down the street with my hands waving madly over my head while I make wild animal sounds.    I shake my head to get rid of the idea.

By this time, my poor husband has started winding down.  He had a full head of steam going into this.  As he winds down, I start to wind up.  “Ok, I’m calling Home Depot and see if they can give me any advice.”  I’ve got to do something and I am desperate to get away from the now toxic garage.

Five minutes into the call, I finally get to the prompt that gives me the paint department.  The guy who answers talks like Charlie Brown’s teacher except with more of a mumble than a pure “Wha Wha, Wha!

After several sentences of pure mumble, mumble, wha, wha, wha, I interrupt him and say, ” I’m sorry, but I don’t have the faintest idea what you are saying.”

This doesn’t seem to phase him and he tosses in another mumble, wha, wha and I stop him and say, “Honestly, I have no idea what you said.  You talk so fast and you mumble.”

Tactless, yes, but you got to forgive me.  I blame the fumes.

“Ma’am,” He says with a voice that says anything but “Ma’am”  “I’m trying to tell you how to clean up your mess.”

“What kind of thinner was it?” He asks.

I hate questions I don’t know how to answer.  “I don’t know.” I admit.

“That’s a problem.  I need to know what it is so I can tell you what to do.  Can you find out?”

I know that this nasty fume creating nightmare is in the bottom of a garbage bag completely covered with thinner.  The idea of sticking my hands in that bag is not appealing.  I just won’t do it.  He wants to insist.

“Ma’am, I got to know.”

Just then my husband comes in.  He looks a little greener than he did a few minutes ago when I left him.

“What is that stuff called?” I ask.

He knows exactly.  I repeat it to the man on the line.

“Super, Nasty, Smelling, Potentially Deadly Chemical Swill,”  I say with righteous authority.

(No, that’s not really what it’s called, but it should be.)

At this point, I decide not to fight it.  This call was a mistake.  It’s not Mumble Mumble Wha Wha’s fault.  He is an innocent victim of my fumes.  He is a good employee however and suggests three products I need to come over and buy to clean up my mess.  I thank him and say, ” I’ll head on over.”

I don’t know why I said that.  I guess I felt bad that he got my phone call and that the fumes were affecting my humanity.  I’m not going any where except maybe in a corner where I can rock and hum to myself for several hours.  It must be the fumes.

After the initial shock of it all, my dear husband has got it out of his system.  He regroups, tackles, problem solves and becomes my hero when he cleans up the mess as best he can with some sand, hose and soap.  We might not be able to close the garage again but there isn’t a toxic lake waiting to lure unsuspecting ants,small mammals and two rapidly aging parents into a horrible death by chemical exposure.

After our tardy son, came out of the shower, he makes an attempt at atonement.  I caution him saying, “I’m so mad at you right now, I can’t talk about it.  I need time to calm down.”

Truth is some times my calm role is just too hard for me to fill.  Some times, I need to trade places or write it out, or sit in the corner and hum softly.  Some times, the “uncalm” become the calm and save the day with perseverance and right action.  Some times, I don’t have a clue and I need help.  When I think of how this started and how it ended, I am so grateful for my husband who really pulled it together and rose to the occasion when I was so out of my league.  Tears spring to my eyes when I think about what he did for me tonight and I bet he doesn’t really know how much it mattered and how grateful I am.  I’d better try to tell him before the fumes wear off.

Prophet in a Strange Land

Some times it seems the harder I try, the worse things get.   I flopped around my week like a fish out of water.   This last week when I listened to career counselors tell high school students how college prepares them for the job market and a better future, I thought of how my degree is helping me now.  I’d be in much better shape if I’d become a mechanic.  While I have no doubt that my degree has increased my quality of life and that at one time it did open doors to jobs I’ve held, it is now basically irrelevant and that was exactly how I was feeling.

At home, as I boldly tried to connect with old and new customers and kept getting voice mails and the occasional live no, I felt irrelevant.  Over weight and out of shape, I felt exhausted and again irrelevant.  I sorted through the past and found things to blame but couldn’t indulge in blaming . Again, the default emotion: irrelevance.  It’s much harder to be a nobody than a some body and I’ve been working too hard at just that.

Negation cripples.  It blocks love and compassion.  My life felt like a land slide on a road no one travels.

This morning, I stumbled to the shower like I usually do.  That transition phase between sleep and wakefulness is an odd territory.  The landscape seems barren yet comfortable and familiar.  There on the plains of my mind, God often speaks.

This admission makes me grossly uncomfortable, yet, here I am again writing about my shower revelations. Over the years, I’ve listened to many people speak about God, His work in their lives, what God wants of us, what we need to do.  Often their words did not match their actions.  They are often blessed with confidence and committed to the conviction that God is speaking through them.  And, often, He  is.  Yet, the God they talk about so easily, is not Someone I know.  I am not like them.

The God, I know, is infinitely confusing.  He/She surrounds my life with ordinary miracles that I usually miss because I’m feeling rather lost and often more than a wee bit worthless.

My belief in God doesn’t instantly make my life better.  The challenges remain and they keep coming.  It’s often enough for me to be more than a little angry at this God.  I’m still waiting for my “joy in the morning”  like a petulant child.  So as a weary morning me steps in the shower, I hear, “You are My voice, crying in the wilderness.”

“Great!  That’s just great!  I already feel like an irrelevant loser and now I’m a voice in the wilderness.  What a lousy job!  How is this going to help me dig my family out of the scary hole we’re in?

In my mind, God smiles patiently, silently, waiting for my little hissy fit to end.   It winds down into exhaustion.  There are some things that are best not to fight. Silent, invisible, smiling God of the shower is one of them.  And, yes, I know how crazy that sounds.

Belief is crazy.  It doesn’t make sense.  It isn’t rational or logical.  I’m often embarrassed to admit I am a believer because it seems so quaint and colloquial, like something evolved civilized people have outgrown, but I can’t deny what I believe to be true:  Some Thing infinitely more evolved than any of us or all of us combined, lies just beyond our rational knowing and this Some Thing loves us beyond our imaging.

This is what I argue with in the shower.  I’m arguing against some amazing, infinitely indescribable, Love.   How stupid is that?

Oh, I’m completely aware that this idea can be one of my own creation.  My desire to have something beyond to believe in might be so great that  in my limited mind and soul,  I may be creating this God as a figment of my imagination.    It doesn’t feel that way.  This shower God that speaks to me and passes on wisdom that pulls me out of my mental prison and opens the door to loving possibility in the midst of a life that looks pretty bleak on paper, is way too good to be a figment of my mind.  I’m just not that gifted.

I stop arguing.  “Ok, I’m a voice in a wilderness.  I don’t want to be.  I think it’s nuts and just out right depressing.  No body is going to listen to me.  Few people listen to me now.  I’m an emasculated Moses without an Aaron.  (I can’t resist an opportunity to be cleverly sarcastic.)

“You’re beginning to get the idea.  I want you to be a prophet.”  This I hear in my head with such clarity, I’m either schizophrenic or actually listening to Some One outside me.  There aren’t too many other possibilities.

“Wait!  This is way too egotistical.  I’m going to sound like an idiot if I ever admit this.  It’s way too arrogant not to mention impossible.  I’m no prophet.  I can’t even comfortably admit that You and I have a relationship.  Who is going to listen to me?”

The Silence that answers, gives me pause.

Can I fight this new level of crazy?

Yesterday,  I spoke with an adult who admitted that he/she is probably an atheist but that even that requires a committment not to believe in something and that wasn’t a place they wanted to go.  I felt sad.  I wanted to say, “I understand how you feel but I believe in a God of Love beyond us and that makes all the difference in my life between a life of meaning and purpose and a life of utter despair. I wish the same for you.  I wish you could know this Love.”

I didn’t say that.  I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t know what to say but I felt sorrow.  I felt like something was missing that God could fill  but I didn’t know how to help.  I couldn’t even share what I believed.  I was ashamed of my silly belief but I was even more ashamed for not sharing it.

No person or idea has been so abused over the centuries, as the concept of a God.  God has been used to justify war, punishment, and all the ills of the world.  Is it any wonder people can be turned off by the idea?  It’s the idea that has been abused and misused, not God.  All the nonsense, we humans toss out that clouds the picture, doesn’t affect who or what God is, was or will be.  It’s us humans that get it all messed up, royally messed up.

“I’m no prophet.”

Hello, God of the Shower, are You listening?  Are You?”

“Write about this, My voice crying in the wilderness.”

And I have.


Following the Daily Love blog by Mastin, today I read a guest post by Chris Assad.  Read the entire article at the link posted posted below.  I’m also sharing a quote on creativity for all those creators out there. 

“The truth is that creativity flows when we show up at our instrument, at the blank page, at our mac (or PC), at our desk, at the easel, and when we make ourselves available for creation to happen. The truth is that creativity is one of the greatest gifts we humans possess and it’s available to all of us all the time if we’re open and ready to receive it. The truth is that creativity is magical but only in the sense that it’s one of the ways that the Divine expresses itself through us, not because we need to wait to be chosen or struck by lightning to experience it.”


Ridiculous.  It’s how I’ve been feeling.   Merriam Webster online dictionary’s primary definition of the word is:

arousing or deserving ridicule :  extremely silly or unreasonable :  absurdpreposterous

Feeling like I might deserve ridicule is not a pleasant place to be and it certainly contributes to a huge writer’s block.

Not long ago some criticism took the wind out of my sails.  Writing has been painfully difficult.  Well, actually clicking the publish button is what has been hard. Writing and then publishing it in a blog with even the most limited readership is not an easy thing for me.

“Why do I still l try?” you ask.

First:  Over the years, there have been many things that were not discussed either in my family, my community, or in my church. I believe that there is a lot of inner pain and suffering that remained locked up in places no one dared open.  I’m not just talking about my personal pain. Every day I am keenly aware of how many people are hurting, insecure, lacking love and attention, feeling that they aren’t good enough.

Being able to admit and own how I feel is an on-going process but an extremely valuable one.  It’s part of healing. Getting things out in the light often kills the things it should. . . like vampires, mildew,  maybe?   Battling the supernatural or mildew is best left to some one else with the name Buffy or Van Helsing or Mr. Bleach.  We just have to get some things in the light and the light will take care of the rest.

My job is hard enough: being me.  It’s so easy to get off course and forget how.  Finding out how I feel or what I really think helps me get back to the job of being me.  It’s time I started to buckle down and master this. And for some reason beyond my understanding, I do a certain amount of that in print, on a little known blog.

Second, in my human stumbling through my quirky little psyche, I believe I have something to offer.  That something may be useful to only one person, once in a blue moon but now that I know blue moons exist, it has made all the difference.  Believe it or not, I don’t always like hitting that publish button and if you mention something I wrote, there are times, when I’ll blush in embarrassment.  Some times,  I still feel ridiculous and I probably am.

It isn’t easy being emotionally genuine and I don’t always make the mark.  I believe in its value even when I can’t see it. Disillusion-al?  In denial?   Definite possibilities. I, however, consider this an assignment. If I didn’t there would be no point in my doing this crazy thing that makes me uncomfortable.  I actually think of it as a long term project for a grad class in which God/the Universe is the teacher.  There is no way I want to disappoint Dr. God. Some times I do. I often disappoint myself but it doesn’t change the assignment.  I’ve got to show up and give it a try. It’s that simple.

These last few months, I’ve been stuck in a shame tornado.  I’ve also been more than a little peeved at the world in general. This made writers block into writers stone cold mountain.  Tunneling through wasn’t working.  Darn cave ins.  Can’t find good psychic mine workers these days that will work 24/7 for free.  Time to go around.  Practical, efficient and not ridiculous in the least.

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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