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Tag Archives: faith

You’re Not

16 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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communicate, experience, faith, healing, listen, We Are

I’ve heard it said or implied so many times. “You’re not (this or that) so your opinion doesn’t matter,” and they try to shut down a line of communication.  The gap between listening and speaking is widening, and I wonder if it’s too far gone to mend. I hope not.

“You’re NOT….

an American citizen

a football fan

a military spouse or veteran

a black mother

the spouse of a cop killed on duty

a gun owner

unemployed

a Jew

a woman

starving

a man

uneducated

a Muslim

a terminal patient

a widow”

So, unless I am one of those, or until I become one, it’s better I don’t waste any time thinking about it? I’ll just stand here, nodding or smiling in silence, obedient, because I’ve got no skin in the game?  I may not have had your experience, I will never claim to know what you’re going through. But at least give me a chance to ask, a chance to let you explain, a chance to tell you what I think about that and see if we can make things better somehow. How else can we share this world unless we put aside our pre-existing conditions, ask a patient in, that one of another faith, sex, and skin color, say come in, come share my world. Show me yours. Let’s heal together.  And we can disagree together, too.”

I guess it’s just easier to say “You don’t know how it feels to be me,” that old Tom Petty tune, and walk away.

 

Tempering the Angry Woman

30 Monday Jan 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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angry woman, faith, politics, social media

Taking some time this morning to examine what it means to be a woman who has an opinion and marched for many things, a/k/a hysterical snowflake.   Meanwhile my son is growing stronger by the day, I am so proud of him and the bonds he shares with his grandparents.  His grandma is in surgery today to get rid of some things that are keeping her from being a healthy, thriving woman, and my candle will burn for her all day.  This morning I changed my Facebook background to a sunset that looks like something Hollywood produced, but no, there it was, just a simple snap on my phone as I meandered on a sandbar.  How could I (we) have been given that holy moment? Who else saw it, and what did they feel?

This morning I am examining how much time I need to give to support the opposition, because I know this will not be a sprint but a marathon.  Social media really beat me down. I hit a wall, and I am only just recently getting my feet under me again.  Proof that balance is necessary in EVERYTHING.  Phone calls, post cards, and marching is easy, when you think about why an immigrant will risk it all to find hope in any other country but their own.  I think about people who refuse to vote or get involved in politics because it’s against their religious beliefs or plays no part in their moral compass.  I’m trying to work around the sadness and frustration that our taxes support their way of life without their kicking in a little something.

This morning I think about the dress I wore for my first holy communion. I looked like a little bride smiling next to Father Jim.  I went to the school my parents chose for me and did what I was told.  It was just what I was supposed to be doing, right?   I remember what I learned in science class, what the earth tells us about the ground we live on and the atmosphere that protects us. It wasn’t until I was older that I began to question the politics of religion, that faith and science struggle to co-exist.  Looking back, if my parents gave me a chance to choose being Catholic over being a woman, I doubt I would have chosen what they wanted.  No wonder we become brides and grooms of the church when we are young, before we can make an informed decision.

This morning I think about the deluge of news from media that gets caught between reporting facts and keeping their subscribers/viewers.  Headlines attract viewers which could attract interest in their advertisers. I invest a lot of energy while reading the news in keeping a centered view of things, and reading articles from left, right, and all the above.  It takes a lot of time, and I am beginning to feel like I need to clamp down on the amount of time I will give the news.

This morning I thought about the angry woman of me. I make room for the anger because it’s how I feel, but I try not to let it dictate how I will treat others and what the rest of my day will be.  The angry woman of me is sad because of the nightmares I had, waking me up crying out “NO!”  She sees women reposting Facebook memes, knowing how easy it is to cut and paste, but where are their own, original thoughts?  The angry woman of me watches Facebook friends complain about how awful their FB page has become, how wonderfully responsible they make themselves seem to be while they overlook the mess they made in their own lives.

This morning, the angry woman needs to take a hot shower and step back from social media for a while.  My phone calls are done for the day. Something good is out there, and I really, really need to get some of that inside of me. And then a friend posts a still from the original “Planet of the Apes,” and I think my day’s agenda has changed.  *sigh*

I Marched Because (I’m gonna need a bigger boat)

24 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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conversation, faith, march, peace, Planned Parenthood, politics, tolerance, WMW, woman

I do not believe that life begins at conception

I believe that abortion should be safe, legal, and accessible

I believe that sex education at home and at school can prevent unwanted pregnancy. Teach your daughter, teach your son, with facts, not myths, and threatening to throw them out of the house if they wind up pregnant does no one any good

I believe that a menopausal woman, married those long years to an abusive man, shouldn’t have to bear him another child if she does not want to

I marched to support Planned Parenthood who provides healthcare for women in need of exams, education, and assisting with birth control

I believe that a woman’s right to choose may be eradicated by the current administration

I believe you do not have to use birth control or have an abortion if you do not want, but do not take that right away from those who do

I believe there are children who need to be adopted, and our adoption laws and services need to be updated to protect the adoptive parents

You believe a zygote is more sacred and more important than eradicating poverty, but once that child is born, the mother better not get on welfare

I marched because

You believe that women and blacks can work and vote, therefore our country is equal and undivided

I marched for the LGBTQ community who have yet to be treated decently and equally

I marched for Gamergate (women who spoke against violence against women in video games who were in turn threatened with rape and death)

I marched because Brock Turner raped a woman behind a dumpster and served three months instead of 6 to 14 years. Had he been non-Caucasian his sentence would have been longer

I marched because “rape culture” are words commonly used in sentences

I marched for the populations who do not have clean water, access to health care, and genital mutilation is still practiced

I marched for Trayvon Martin and Philandro Castile

I marched for Black Lives Matter, and I hope you’ll not suggest that I don’t care about or appreciate Blue Lives, or any of our men and women in uniform

I marched against normalizing “locker room talk” so our children know that assault is not, and never will be, the status quo

I marched for Malala, Megyn Kelly, and against mansplaining

I marched against painting immigrants as rapists, terrorists, and bad hombres

I marched against a man who mocked a disabled person then lied about it

I marched because Citizens United takes the voice away from The People in governmental affairs and no one seems interested in overturning it

I marched because I know a wall won’t stop people from seeking a safe haven from their countries’ oppressive regimes

Because I know that as long as people want drugs, or want children for sex or to clean their homes, no wall will stem the flow

Because citizens choose between their meds or groceries every month

Because our veterans are forgotten while they are still living

I marched because we turned a blind eye to lead in the water, plastic bottles and bags have become a need, and we are destroying earth’s balance of water and air

Because school-to-prison has become the norm

I marched because there are people who believe the Sandy Hook massacre was a “false flag event” and if you do not know what that means, please find out and search your heart

I marched because there are too many guns on the street killing our young people

I marched because we are not one nation under God—we are not all believers–but we are good people who pay our taxes just the same

I marched because individuals, corporations, and religious groups do not pay their fair share in taxes, so  the middle class shoulders the burden without the benefit of an account in the Caymans

I marched because going to college should not create lifelong debt

I marched because I believe in a well-rounded education, not just the ability to pass a test

I marched because men think it’s okay to catcall and follow women walking on the street like it’s an acceptable means to have a conversation

I marched because women who are wise and stand up for what is right are labeled as witches or worse. We are ridiculed because we’ve “already got everything,” what more do we want?

I didn’t march because I want to rip a fetus from a womb because I hate babies and want to eat them in a stew, or emasculate men by forcing them to be more like women. I didn’t march to ask we get rid of all guns.  I didn’t march because I hate white people or God or my country.  I marched because I am asking you to make room for other people’s beliefs and needs.  I am asking you to get your head out of the television and Twitter and wrap your head around the fact that the United States is part of one small world, and we have to share it. I marched to ask that you understand your bible doesn’t apply to us all, but as long as we keep loving and talking to each other, we are going to be okay.   Look deeply into and drink the words love, respect, and tolerance. Let go of fear.

We have come to a place where people don’t want things to change because that’s the way it’s always been, that anything else will offend God, or it will lead to the extinction of their class and race.  That somehow all good traditions and values will cease to exist once they die.  I am asking people to examine if it’s fair to force all of us to live by your views. The world is going to go on after I am gone, and I want to leave it a more just and fair place than where I found it.  I feel grateful to have learned that life is not and never will be “my way or the highway.”  Can you learn that, too?

The Senses

09 Friday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

brother, childhood, faith, father, Godzilla, mother, racism, Senses, truth

I can remember what the plastic-coated railing of my crib tasted like: flat, cool, and sometimes it pinched my tongue and made it bleed a little.   I can remember what breakfast tasted like, little bowls of Apple Jacks or Cheerios, maybe milk toast awesome with butter and a dash of pepper.  Sick bed days were spent on the couch in front of the tube watching Godzilla with grilled cheese and tomato soup, no guilt required.

I can remember what mornings sounded like. The awful squawk of the alarm clock that launched me from my bunk bed, headed me off to the bathroom to wash my teeth but skip my hair because I already had a bath last night, and it didn’t matter that my hair greased geometrically overnight and everyone made fun of me. Slurping down breakfast while listening to the news on the green radio Mom kept on the table.  I can still smell Dad’s Old Spice and wondering where those long, thick scars on his back came from, but I knew better than to ask.

I can remember what nighttime sounded like when our bedroom lights were out but the one in my head stayed on.  I heard their music playing on the stereo:  The Surfaris, Sinatra, Andy Williams, Cher, Simon & Garfunkel, Johnny Cash… a soundtrack for a life still in infancy. Once I heard the crinkle of gift wrap on Christmas Eve, but I knew better than to ask.

I can remember dinners that alternated between Daddy’s home and Daddy’s not home, and it’s unfair and cruel to say which was the best, but when Daddy wasn’t home we took his special quarters and bought pizza from Regina’s and ate like there would never be anything this heavenly again in all our lives–a perfect mozzarella pizza with tiny pepperoni that perfectly cupped the oil.  I can remember mom pouring oil into the electric fry pan and overcooking just about everything, things that were not meant to be soaked in hot oil.  I learned to hate eggplant in that fry pan.  She warmed up peas from a can, and I sat in front of them and the desiccated liver and onion thing, determined to starve and die because it was so awful, and I never gave in, a good ship Resolute.

I can remember Mom playing songs on the organ in our bedroom from a blue denim book. Many were happy and fun like “Camptown Races,” patriotic like “The Marines Hymn,” and some were “spirituals” or work songs.  Mom had no idea these were offensive or hurtful because she grew up believing these were just songs. One of my Catholic school teachers taught us a slave song, and even then it felt wrong to me: “Oh lordie, pick a bale o cotton, o lordie pick a bale a day…”  No.  Just, no.

I can remember Mom putting black pepper in my mouth for saying something horrible about my brother. I can remember Dad making me hold a heavy box with my arms outstretched until they shook because I was a very bad girl at the store. I just closed my eyes and focused on the lamp that rained oil in the stationery store, the one I wanted so badly.

I remember pussy willow buds, so soft and silver-white that bloomed every year in the courtyard, the courtyard that Godzilla never managed to destroy in my dreams.  I remember that clover tasted bitter, grass even worse, and dandelions leave the most wonderful yellow on fingertips. I remember popping open sticky maple seeds and putting them on my nose so I could be a rhinoceros or any other kind of mythical beast. I remember the prickle of sweet gum seeds that felt like porcupines underfoot.

I remember the constant sound of jets taking off or coming back to LaGuardia.  One long, hot day at summer camp I got to see the Concorde flying over the tennis courts as I lay in the grass waiting to play. The sonic boom, the awesomeness of that tiny white delta shape in a perfect blue sky in a place that I hated.  It was a spaceship of amazing, a spirit unbelievable.  God I’ll never forget that Concorde, the mysteries and marvel of its wing.

I remember the heady fragrance of incense, but I don’t remember which resin was burning on that holy day.  I can remember the swish of the priests robes and the clink of the decanter chain, whispers instead of songs.  I remember the bland taste of the Eucharist and that it did not cancel out my doubts, fears, or wonders I’ve had about this life.  The body of Christ tastes like something you must decipher for yourself, and for heaven’s sake don’t chew on it!

I remember growing up in a neighborhood with friends who were of different faiths. The old lady on the park bench, the fixture, always spoke to us nicely and nobody told me she was Jewish until later, and I didn’t know it mattered. The kids I went to camp with were of various faiths and nobody cared, except for that one girl who tried to own the rest of us in her braids and perfect red swimsuit, that horrible bully.   Unfortunately, I lived in a neighborhood where black and brown people were looked on as dangerous or at the very least suspicious, but it was so hard for me to process that because all the kids I went to school with were different colors–a bunch of them were Vietnamese.  I learned to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in Vietnamese,  and maybe that put me on the road to becoming a bleeding heart. At least I know what inclusion means and how it feels. That it looks like my son’s Vietnamese best friend who lived just across the yard, whose family invited us, including my Dad who served in Vietnam, to celebrate their sons birthdays.  We came to their table and ate traditional foods flavored with chopped peanuts and fish sauce, or wrapped in rice paper. How can this happen, and how can I be so lucky? Was my whole life just one big serendip waiting to happen?

Oh god/goddess keep our senses wide open, to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch the world and love it to the fullest.

Stand Up For The Nameless Holy Ones

22 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evolving, faith, Henry Rollins, history, politics, refugee

The fate of the world rests in what my father believed and passed down to me.  In what his father and fathers before passed down to him.  All father’s everywhere in the world are responsible for the mess we are in right now.  But what about our mothers? It is said that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. What did she, the universal Mother, pass down to us through the ages?  Is her voice and actions responsible for the mess we are in?

Those are blanket statements, overgeneralized, narrow and fearful in view.  I come here today to chew on the savory stew brewing in the world’s cauldron, yes, even the blood and gristle that come boiling up to the top. Today I am sorting to see what needs to be done.

In the beginning there was the Word, it is said. Every culture has one. All our fingers are printed with ancient soot we told our stories in. We record them because we need to remember, and perhaps more importantly, we want others to. Sometimes the words become holy, and what is holy for you is not so much for me. When I was an infant I was baptized Catholic, an action I could not consent to.  I withdrew my faith as a teenager and my parents discontinued their push to get me Confirmed, to continue my life’s journey through Christianity. Strange that I would study the bible and torah looking for answers when I no longer believed them holy.  What about the rest of the world? Shift your eyes to the greater world, other cultures and faiths. I wonder how many still believe the faith of their fathers in the same way?  How and when does their faith shift, if ever? The poorest among us still share what they have, and I ask is it out of basic human decency, or is it faith?  So many of us do not have the time (or inclination) to sit down and sort through verses and quotations to establish their truth via translation, or study the men who composed them to attain a deeper understanding of what they really meant. “How can I believe anything Paul said when he was once Saul, why should I care, and what bearing does that have on just another workaday in this soul-sucking life,” is what I believe so many people must feel.  Conversely, so many people adhere to their faith without question. They don’t feel the need to do a background check on Paul. They get through their working two jobs with no car, no daycare, no healthcare because they are living their faith. It heals and upholds them, and that is a beautiful thing.

The Constitution of the United States was written by men who owned other human beings. We learned about them all throughout school, memorizing certain facts from textbooks in order to pass tests. Henry Rollins, once a rock star, can quote amendments, Jefferson, and Mandela because he wants to, not because he has to pass a test, and it makes my pea brain want to implode. So many of us do not have the time (or inclination) to sit down and sort through the Constitution, the amendments, to do background checks on the framers, Supreme Court justices, hell, even local official, to get to the bottom of things. To become informed about our country or the world.  I believe most of us just don’t have time or the need for that, so we take the worms our parents fed us, assimilate their biases into our own, grow up into good little birds, leave the nest and start the whole thing all over again. (Yes, we assimilate their good deeds, too.)  Even if we were their clones, we would still make our own mistakes in the process of being our individual selves. Wouldn’t we? We just take it all on faith making our way through life best we can. I can feel the weariness from here, and it makes my soul tired.

There are some who are delving down into faith, into our history.  The best-seller list indicates as much, but what are we doing with what we learn?  Time to break the cycle of “I am the product of my father and mother’s faith, teachings, and what I observed of them.” Time for us to stop being the product of our parents faith, their history, their biases, the product of our schooling, our jobs, or being somebody’s lamb.  Time to give a shit about that guy down the street, our neighbor, those strangers who are a family,  instead of some guy on the squawk box or the pulpit.  A “radical” idea from a pro-choice privileged elite feminist hell-bent on destroying religion and by tearing up the political and moral fabric of our nation?  Or just a small idea from a person who believes that making a better world comes from the bottom up, not the top down. From my hands into yours. Who believes a smile, a hello, a hug, speaking kindly, speaking someone’s name can make a difference.  You are the majority, the weary ones with your hands in the soil, giving the last of your bread to your neighbor. You are the nameless holy ones missing from our table.

Omaha Graffiti

19 Friday Aug 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Baha'I, blessings, death, faith, graffiti, Journey, life, Omaha

I stand in your shadows when I write. I stand in your shadows when I read. I measure myself by those mental yardsticks and know I’ll never crash to the bottom in you, any of you. But you, sir, took it to the next level.

My words tend to be grainy and delayed, selling the promise of a poem and little more.  When I read your words I feel like a five course meal at a five star restaurant wearing sweatpants, sleeves dipped in red sauce. I feel like throwing in the towel. But I read them again and there comes a swelling dare, like swimming beyond the breakers, daring some thing to swim past my skin, brush my leg, make me wonder, but keep going, it’s out there!   Your words dare me to keep writing (but I’m still not gonna rob liquor stores with you, which is really the same thing, isn’t it?)

You say you’d forgotten that beach exists, the city obliterated water from your memory. I say the city can’t take nothing away that you didn’t want to let go.  You get to make your life as precise, blurry, fractious, secret and perfect as you want it to be, like the figures you sketch on train rides home.

Your PKDick mind never stops. I could hear words flurrying, flickering, battering, infernoing the whole way out to Omaha and back, so I would point past your nose and grunt things like, “Look! River! Mountain! Field! Mist!” I wanted you to stop. To see a land where the plates and the glacier said “You will not end here: You will fold and ridge and rise and landslide, you will be covered in greens and generations of deer and owl will fly from your sides. You will glisten red and wet in sunrise and bow down broken cold in gray winter knowing it will pass and you shall gleam again.”

I stood before a pine coffin in a far-flung section of the cemetery.  I came to help you say goodbye to a friend in Omaha. A hawk flew overhead. Bees played in the low, dry grass. Sweat trickled down our sides with our tears. I listened to a song and a prayer for the dead in a faith I’d only just learned about, Baha’i; the word is beautiful.  I like making graffiti on smooth, cool bathroom walls and how much I wanted to put my pen into the soft wood and write, “Rest In Peace, Friend” though I did not know him.  The pen grooves would have felt satisfying, and it was a hard urge to resist.  Maybe that’s all writing is to me, after all?

Final scattered notes:  Remember when exit 91 was closed?  The Arch.  “Yeah, well anything looks pretty when you stick a blue light on it,” she said, bitterly. Your magic box, world ending hot sauce, a final fresh vegetable meal I will make again and again.   I have notes on the couple sitting next to us in the museum café that I hope she never sees because it’s not flattering a’tall. You lost in a painting you didn’t particularly like. I may never drink coffee again due to world-ending heartburn, and I wonder what your 53 pages look like today. Have they multiplied, conjoined? Divided? Where do you go to write now?  I will never drive by a Starbucks without thinking of you.  Thank you for allowing me to be part of this journey.  I am blessed because of it all, and I will try to honor and continue the blessings.

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