Memorial Day

Photo found here and copied entirely without permission but not without respect.

Many of my family have served their country in the various branches. I learned a couple of years ago (thanks to my aunt) that my father served in Germany, although I do not yet know in what branch or when.  His father was in the Navy, in the Pacific.  My brother was in the Army, but thankfully got out when yet another gopher hole tried to eat his ankle. Don't ask. My Uncle was in the Air Force, even flying Air Force Two for a while. My Grandfather (Mum's father) was in the Coast Guard during World War II. I have a cousin retired from the Air Force. I believe he flew Airforce somethingorother from time to time (I'm being intentionally obtuse so as not to make it easy to find him and cause shenanigans). I have a friend who was in the Army during the Vietnam War (conflict, my ass!) - I never once resented the calls at three-o'clock in the morning; nightmares shy away from friendly voices, from reason and reassurance. Another friend was in the Army until it broke his back - literally. He survived, but not his plans for a lifetime in the military - they don't want broken people, no matter how useful or clever they are. Someone's family is jam-packed with folks who've served - mostly Navy, I believe - and deserve some respect and thanks. So...thanks.

For a history of this day, go here. Or here. Or here. In a nutshell, Memorial Day is for remembering the fallen. Veteran's Day is for honoring the living. That's why they get two days, and so they should. Men and women stand up and make targets of themselves to maintain our freedoms every day of the year, so the least we can do is take two days to tell them "Thanks. Thanks for acting against human nature and protecting me and mine. Thanks for losing an arm, a leg, a life so that I don't have to."

It's not about the politics. I'm non-violent. I don't think war is ever a reasonable response to conflict. I don't believe that wars are fought for ideals, but rather for political and/or financial gains. I won't forget, though, that people have laid down their lives so that I may stand on a street corner protesting (I never would) them, or denigrating (never, ever!) them for their service.

Perhaps one day, we won't have any new graves to decorate. Until then, I remember and (as best I can) I honor.


In Flanders Fields by John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.  Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from flailing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

What Gun Control Means at Casa de Crazy*

*Update below.

On Thursday afternoon, T was shot.

By a gun.

Not a water gun.

A .45, with a hollow point bullet.

He was in the car with his best friend, J.  J buys and trades firearms.  He is reasonably intelligent and safe, but on Thursday something went wrong.  While he was inspecting this particular firearm that (as I understand it) he'd just bought, checking the slide, the firearm...well...fired.  That was unexpected.  It should have been empty.  Who sells a loaded weapon?  And then doesn't tell the buyer it's loaded?

The bullet was one of the particularly horrid sort, a hollow point, designed to do as much damage as it can while it tears through flesh.

In T's case, it went into his abdomen, in one side and out the other.  Because of the very close range, it didn't have a chance to blossom into the little nugget of destruction it was designed to be.  Because it rocketed through soft tissue, it did relatively little damage, all things considered.

T took a helicopter ride to a level 1 trauma center and had some surgery performed on him.

There may be some long term repercussions - he lost some...er...to put it delicately...innards...and there's a concern of infection, but overall things are nowhere near as devastating as they could have been, and for that we are grateful.

So this happened on Thursday, as I was at Mum's sort of keeping her company and cooking dinner - she broke her leg on Monday and has been subsisting on soup and yoghurt, a home cooked meal was in order.  I received the call as I was slathering butter on the chickens I planned to roast.  My hands were all buttery and I almost didn't answer my phone, but a call from my sister-out-law is unusual so I picked up, butter and all.

I didn't immediately drive down - to what purpose?  He would be out cold for a while, and there were already people there with him, people who love him and would let me know if there really was a need to go NOW.  I didn't tell The Evil Genius about his father, because why let him worry all night?   We would go the next day, Friday, and I would let him know what happened while we were driving.  Had things gone bad, I would have told him what was up and driven us down to the trauma center, but they didn't.

With luck, T will be out of the SICU today, and perhaps out of the hospital next week.  The Evil Genius and I went to see him yesterday and will try to go again tomorrow if I can find a sitter for Sprout.

I wouldn't be me if I didn't turn this into a teachable moment.

So, on the way to see T, the Evil Genius and I talked about our "Rules of Guns".  These are OUR rules and may not mesh with other peoples' rules, but hopefully they will stick with him and save him experiencing what T and his friend J are experiencing now.

Guns are not toys.
Always maintain your gun.
The gun is always loaded, even when it isn't.
Never point a gun unless you intend to shoot.*
Never shoot unless you shoot to kill.*
Never take a life unless it is to feed your family or in defense of yourself or another.
Always honor the life you take.

My idea of gun control is to be in control of your firearm.  I don't like them.  I won't use them.  I'll cut a bitch, but shoot?  No.  I won't own one because at best it would gather dust and at worst it would arm an assailant because I wouldn't use it.  That said, I don't have anything against anyone else having one if they are safe and sensible with it.  I don't blame the hammer for smashing my thumb, I blame my use of it.  I feel the same way about firearms - I don't blame the object for the results of its use.

Speaking of blame - I don't blame J for this.  Perhaps neither of them were as cautious as they could have been.  Certainly the man who handed J a loaded firearm had an obligation to TELL him!  Everyone involved will very likely exercise more caution in the future, and life will go on as life does.  I am as worried about J as I am T - they'll both have scars after this.

If you'e the praying kind, the blessing kind, then sparing a bit of love, compassion, and healing energy for T would be much appreciated - I'm a damn good witch but I can only do so much.

*Update the first - T is out of the ICU and in a regular room.  He is in good spirits.  He should recover fully.  Tomorrow he may be given his first semi-solid food, mashed potatoes!  I'm bringing him some home made chicken broth and some chicken soup, with doctor's permission, later this week.

Update the second - T was rousted by the PT folks yesterday and marched up and down the hall in his terribly fashionable open-backed hospital gown.  Alas, I was not there to take photographs with which to blackmail him later.

Update the third - T is out of the hospital and heading home for the remainder of his recovery, woot!!!

*I was recently mocked for this because what about cleaning or target shooting?  "Oh, well, I guess I have to kill someone every time I pick up my gun!"  You know what?  Laugh.  That kind of foolery is what gets people killed, because it makes it easy to dismiss safety and responsibility.  As far as I'm concerned, guns aren't funny.  If you can't follow a few simple safety guidelines, I'm not sure I want you in my home or if I want to be in yours.  Fuck me for NOT wanting me or my children to be part of a horrid statistic.  

Low

Dear Goddess, I am low tonight, very low.  I miss my Someone, and my body aches, and my spirits are flagging, and my psyche is weak and trembling, and yes, I am low tonight, very low.

I yelled at my daughter today and she was wide eyed and frightened and even though I told her and told her not to do that thing and she did it, I didn't have to yell but I am low, very low.

My mother is hurting and I want to protect her but she WILL be spry and active and insist on doing the many things that want done and I want to make her all better but I can't kiss it away and I worry about her and I am low, Goddess, very low.

Someone I know was shot, it was an accident, the person who shot them is devastated, and to respect their privacy I am not talking about it or naming names but still they are hurt and teetering on an uncertain outcome and I believe they will pull through but there's nothing I can do but look to you, Goddess, and ask for compassion, for love, for mercy, for healing, for comfort for the people watching and waiting, and I am quiet and worry you won't hear me because I am low, so very, very low.

Tomorrow I know I will get up, get moving, get on with it because life doesn't stop, life doesn't hesitate, life goes one and on and even the low, the very low, the terribly low must continue on, too, or be rolled over and left behind, but for tonight, Goddess, give me sleep and dreams of sweetness and take away the anger and hurt and fear and let me wake, if not raised up, then at least not so low, Goddess, so very low.

Mother's Day

Thanks for never taking a sick day from possibly the most difficult job a body can have, Mum.  I love ya!

Rambling

Last weekend, Sprout and I went to visit her Papa in prison.  I know I haven't much talked about his arrest and the experiences following it.  There's not a lot to say - he was arrested, he had to use a public defender who was more interested in getting rid of the case than actually defending, who lied to Someone about what he would ask for regarding leniency, sentencing, and where Someone would serve his time if Someone would just plead guilty instead of taking it to trial.  Someone pleaded guilty and the defender said NOTHING to the judge, simply accepted the full sentence from the prosecutor.  He didn't ask for any of the things he said he would.

I am, perhaps, a little bitter about that.

Someone was finally sent to his "permanent" facility, where he will be until next April.  Sprout and I hadn't seen him since last December, and we hadn't had physical contact since October.

All this time we have been waiting to be told we may visit.  I filled out 14 pages of paper work - that's 7 pages two time, since they said they never got the forms the first time.  Someone hounded every officer and official he could find inside the facility, begging to see his family.
Last week, on Friday, we finally found out we could go see him.  At the last minute, on a shoestring budget largely funded by my mother, we drove four hours, checked into a motel, and went to see Someone.  Contact visit!

Sprout launched herself across the room and clung to him, hugging him close and fierce.  She kissed him.  Throughout the two visit periods (up to 5 hours Saturday afternoon, and again on Sunday morning), she patted his face, held his hand, kissed him, hugged him, stared at him, smiled at him, leaned on him, played with his shorn head and his cold hands, shared cookies and chips from the vending machine with him, and generally orbited him like a sweet little moon.

I got to kiss him, and hug him, and occasionally, surreptitiously, hold his hand.  We're not supposed to have that much contact, but it seems the guards are marvelously near-sighted as long as folks don't get too out of hand.  They also seem to be especially understanding of children wanting to love on their family members.  I appreciate the leniency - we are touchy folk, tactile.

I didn't realize how fully I missed Someone until I was there, looking into his eyes, touching him.  I felt shy, awkward, as if we were meeting for the first time all over again.  There was a place in me that was empty, a place that is only filled when we can touch, share light and air and space.  I think he felt the same way.  The place in me where he should be was dark, and I had been having difficulty seeing him in my mind.  That part of me is a little renewed, a little refreshed.  My gauge isn't on empty any more.

Leaving my home and going all that way, going through what we have to go through to see him, wasn't easy.  My psyche doesn't like it one little bit.  I told Someone that I will do things for him and for the kids that I would never do for myself - they make me brave in a way I don't think I would be if it was just me.  Left to my own devices, I'd stay in bed most of the time and never hit a lick at a snake.  I'd hide from the world, hide from the light, try to hide from myself.

I've never been as good at doing for myself as I am at doing for others.

Despite having been out in the world every day this week, I'm taking Sprout back down to see Someone this weekend.  We'll go whenever we can, when we have the time and finances.  It will help us speed the time until he finally comes home.

Until then, I'll be worried about him, about his safety, his well-being.  I'll be lonely.  I'll struggle with everything and want to give up, but I will keep on keeping on because he needs a home to come home to.

Happy Beltane (a re-post)

Happy Beltane, for those who celebrate.

If you'd like to know a bit about the holiday, go here. Or here. Or here. Or Google search Beltane and duck before your computer spits out a load of links. When you're done reading, come back and giggle because I said "load of links". I won't tell.

Meanwhile, perhaps I will find something to burn and roast marshmallows over this evening, the closest thing to a Beltane celebration I'll have this year. Sigh.

Let me...

Every morning, before I even get out of bed, I say what I guess passes for a prayer - "Goddess, let me do good today."

That's it.  Simple, but heartfelt.

Goddess, let me do good today.

There is so much unhappiness, so much pain, so much suffering.  I know that those things serve a purpose, that pain teaches, suffering teaches, unhappiness shows us the way to a joyful life, but it seems so unnecessary.  It seems like we cling to our misery, even knowing we are miserable and seeing another way to be.

Why are we so afraid to be happy?

Why am I so afraid to be happy?

I can't do anything about my wiring, about my chemistry.  Depression isn't a matter of choice.  Even so, even deeply, darkly, indelibly, severely depressed, I see the beauty in the world, I see the beauty in my fellow humans, I see the worth and the nobility and the struggle and the vast potential for joy, and it pains me that we hold ourselves back, hold each other back, from that joy, from that beauty.

Goddess, let me do good today.

Let me feed someone who is hungry.  Let me give a steadying arm to someone who has stumbled.  Let me give a hand up to someone who has fallen.  Let me give comfort.  Let me bring a smile.  Let me raise up one who feels brought low.  Let me give fellowship, let me give someone the knowledge that they are not alone on their journey.  Let me give of myself, and by giving, receive.

Goddess, let me do good today.

A Letter to A Certain Part of My Anatomy

Dear Back (especially Lower),

I know, I know, I have not been very kind to you.  There was all the horseback riding (and falling off), the swimming, the sailing, the skiing (and more falling).  There was the tree climbing (and, did I mention falling?) and the occasional ass-over-teakettle down the stairs.  There was that car accident.  And the hot-air-ballooning incident.  And all that slouching, all those extra pounds.

Really, it's a marvel you've been as good as you have.

I tried to take care of you - occasional soaks in a hot tub, sporadic visits to a chiropractor, every now and then a massage.  I lost a few pounds (not enough, I know), and tried to remember to stretch every day and keep up with my posture.

We've been together a long time, and I hope we can continue to have a healthy relationship.

But you're going to have to step up to the plate, back.  Some parts of you are just not up to snuff  (I'm looking at YOU, lower back!) and it's really hampering my ability to do anything useful.

What happened to the days of lifting and toting boxes about like they didn't weigh a thing?  Of moving tables and bins and relocating huge pieces of wood in the garage?  Of bending down and standing up without a care?

Seriously, back, I can fell my spine.  FEEL it, every inch of it.  What's up with that?  And the muscles in your lower bit?  Stiffer than the giant board I had to struggle with today because you were all "Ah!  Heavy!!!" on me!

Good grief, I can't even roll over in bed without you twinging and reminding me you're in a snit.

This has to stop, back.  Things have to change.  We can't go on like this.

How about if I get some nice liniment?  Maybe start doing some slow, easy stretches?  Help a girl out, wouldja???

Sincerely,
Feeling Old and Crippled

Cabs

Apparent;y it's Siblings Day?  What does one gift for that?  Noogies?  

I should miss my brother's presence in my life.  No, he's not dead or anything, we're just not terribly close.  I don't miss him, really...difficult to miss what was never really there, isn't it?  I adore him no less, and sometimes wistfully wonder if we couldn't be closer.  He is older and for a while when I was young I thought he was the best person in the whole world.

Our history is complex, and I suspect I have put far more thought into it than he has, our natures being what they are.

For all that our lives had the same beginnings, we certainly went different ways.  He was in the military, got out when gophers ate his ankles (long story), and now, lots of years and a few kids later, he's got his own business, his own house, travels with his family, keeps busy.

Me?  Er...well...ahem.

Our mother loves us both as we are, bless her.  Strange how very different we can be, and yet have a sameness to us that makes folks say we look like twins despite years between us.

I love my bro, unconditionally.  If he called and told me he needed me, I wouldn't hesitate to help him.  Even if it meant burying a body.  I like to think he may feel somewhat the same about me.

Isabelle

I am trying to live a creative, honest, compassionate life.  It is no easy thing to struggle against myself and all the years of lies that I thought were my story.  It is no easy thing to be open, always open, so that I may pierce myself to the core, or allow others to pierce, because being open is the only way I can be honest, because closing off, hiding, protecting, defending, these only cut me off from myself and from whatever it is that lends me creativity and lets me see beauty.

I'm not the story you told me, but I am not the story I've been writing, either.  I'm changing the plot an inch at a time, a painful, slow, impossible inch at a time and I wonder how many more inches until I am living the life I seek instead of the life I let you shape out of stone and bars and thorns and shit.

I am trying to see more than what is commonly seen of this world, to look beyond the flat, hard, ugly surface to the rippling, effervescent, ever changing maelstrom that is the heart of the speck of the great big bang that rushes out into a Universe before it curls up into itself and re-imagines its creation, poor old Micheal Finnegan, begin again.

I am trying to see that the angry people are tender and sore and fierce about their soreness and the bitter people are frightened and lost and angry about their lostness, and that we're all of us feeling out of control and cut off and cut loose and like we missed out on something better, some vague something better that we keep hearing about everyone else having but can't quite grasp ourselves.

Because despite what you tried to make me over into, I AM a compassionate being, an angry and scared and hurt and scarred and lost and beautiful and damaged being, so much more than you could have ever imagined me to be and so much less than I may once have been when I was sound and whole, but that's not the me I am any more, you tore her to pieces so you could remake her into the image you thought she should be, into what you imagined she ought to be, all the while telling her how imperfect she was without also mentioning that it is our very imperfections that make us so mighty good and powerful and wonderful and godlike.

I wasn't my one cousin, blonde and perfect and pretty and smart and graceful and stylish,  I wanted to sail boats and climb trees and ride horses, but not how she rode horses with precision and poise in a top hat and the Olympics wanted me, no, I wanted to ride horses in the woods and along winding roads and into the dining room and without saddles or bits or anything but the agreement that we were going together in some direction, both half-wild and completely free to chase the wind if we pleased.

I wasn't my other cousin, well behaved, demure, slender, elfish.  I was an amazon, wide and tall and strong and you convinced me I was fat and ungainly and couldn't dance because I had no grace and couldn't wear those pretty dresses because I was too round in the middle and my shoulders, my world-holding, good-for-crying-on shoulders, were too wide to be feminine and I should hide, hide in closets and under tables and behind big, fake smiles so no one would see how ugly I was, such a shame, what an embarrassment to you, a let-down.

So I am trying to shed these stones you piled into my basket, but I have to be careful because some of them became part of my foundation and prying them loose could shake me to pieces, and some of them I want to keep and hold and love, yes, love, because they are precious and opened my eyes in a heavy, hurtful, roundabout, transformative way.  They showed me something you never wanted me to see, would never had accepted, which is that I am, as I am, all of me, brilliant and I am not bound by the ropes you wrapped me in, I can slip free of them, make them into a hammock and take my ease in the breeze under the trees and forget your face set in disapproving lines and imagine you happy.

If you still want to shape someone into your paragon of feminine humanity, it is never too late to look in the mirror and see what you can see.  As for me, I do not look into mirrors because I don't know what I am seeing - who I am or who you convinced me I was, and it's all too confusing and I'd rather look into the sky and ride the wind on a hawk blessing or lose myself in the heart of a flower where the color becomes something beyond sight and turns the world on its ear, or watch my daughter play in ways I never could with a freedom you would never allow, and perversely take pleasure in knowing you would hate the dirt and noise and realness of my force-of-nature children, and I am, after all, human, and I can forgive and still enjoy the idea of your discomfiture and it's only dirt or paint or marker and will come off eventually but the happiness that stains their souls is forever and it stains mine too and that's worth more than your approbation ever was.

And because I AM a creative, honest, compassionate being I can know what you did, look you and your monsters right in the eye and tell you that I wish you well, that I love you, and that I am and will only ever be myself, and not your piece of clay.

Water, Agua, L'eau, Wasser, Vερό, पानी, Acqua, 水, Agua, Води, المياه, Vand, Вода

Photo yoinked from needlestick.org

Water is on my mind this morning.  Back pain or no back pain, I need to clean my home, and that requires water.  Water I have a-plenty, hot or cold on demand.  Water I have, liquid or solid, and I can make it vapor if I so desire.  What a luxury, water like this.  Water for bathing, water for laundry, water for drinking, for flushing, for dishes and mopping.  My children don't know what "thirsty" really means.  We are rich in water.

So many people are not.

Hardly seems right, that in so many places the bounty of water available here, taken for granted here, wasted here, would be a miracle to others.

In the recent past, Detroit threatened to turn off the water for a large number of residents for unpaid bills.  The UN had to step in and stop it or the city would have created an urban desert.  Seems Baltimore is planning to do the same in the next week or so, millions of unpaid bills and delinquent accounts hurting their bottom line.  California is calling for a 25% water use reduction statewide due to drought, denying the Central Valley region the ability to irrigate crops and leaving many residents fearful that there may be no water at in a year.
In Africa, people are being told they cannot drink river water without using purification tablets they must purchase, as it's contaminated, but they cannot use wells dug by cities or the state (corporations, really) without paying a hefty fee.

Colorado has banned rainwater collection - no rain barrels or cisterns allowed.

The CEO of Nestle says water is NOT a basic human right and that people should have to pay for it or go without.

Think about that last.

What are we made of, for the most part?  And it's not a basic human right?

For many years, I have thought about where the water is.  There are plenty of maps and charts available to show where water is used by whom, where it is over used, and where it falls as rain and snow.

What those maps and charts don't show is all the water that is captured, imprisoned, unable to be part of the cycle.

What am I talking about?

Imagine a convenience store.  It doesn't have to be one of the biggest ones, even a smaller one will do. Imagine the shelves and coolers in that convenience store.  Imagine all the soft drinks, juices, beers and other adult beverages, energy and sports drinks, and yes, bottled water.  Bottled.  Can't evaporate, condense, fall as rain or snow.  One small store.  Now multiply that, magnify that, take it to a larger store, a super store, one of those buyer's club stores.  Now go city-wide.  Hmm.  State wide.  Umm...  Nation wide.  Holy crap, that's  LOT of water.

Companies like Nestle, Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and everyone else who bottles, ships, and sells water or other water-using beverages?  They have taken a natural resource, an elemental thing, a necessity, and made it their commodity.  All that water sitting in bottles on shelves, in tanks in factories.  Water taken from Florida and transported to Ohio.  Water bottled in France or Switzerland and sent to the USA or Asia or anyplace but the place it came from.  Water that used to fall in drops upon the earth, flow through the soil into streams and rivers, filling ponds and lakes and flowing onward to the ocean and always, always going through the cycle.  Now it can't.

And people wonder why there is scarcity, drought.  Release all that bottled water, just sitting there waiting to be used, and see what happens.

You can't own water, any more than you can own fire, or earth, or the wind, or the human spirit.  These things, they are everyone's.  We can claim the rights to use them, but own them?  Absurd.  Water IS a basic human right.  It is necessary to life, and no one should be able to deny to others in the name of profit.

I'm thirsty.  I think I'll get a drink of water.  I raise my glass to the world and hope that we get our collective heads out of our asses and start doing right by each other - that includes recognizing that all beings should be able to drink freely, drink their fill, without fear of penury for the pleasure.

Thoughtfetti

Auditory chaos.  That's what it sounds like here at Casa de Crazy.  If you close your eyes, the noise is almost schizophrenic in nature - music flowing forth from the desktop computer as the Evil Genius plays a game, music of another sort rolling out of the television as Sprout watches a show, voices floating through the air as the Evil Genius talks to a friend on Skype, cats meyowling for no reason whatever, fish tanks bubbling, burbling, and tinkling, and various electronic beeps, boops, and bloops giving punctuation to it all.  There is a background hum, too, of various appliances, the ice maker groaning, even the wind making the Casa creak.

I am trying to view this as an opportunity to work on filtering out the distractions, but right now I am supremely aware of every little noise, and I wonder how people don't go mad with it all.

Sometimes I have to step outside once the sun is down and listen to the peepers chirping out their love songs, the beetles ratcheting out their clicking counterpoint, the wind soughing through the upper branches of the tallest trees, the quieter, softer sounds of nature making a restful change from the noise pollution going on within our walls.
~~~~~
I guess I won't be doing business in or with the state of Indiana until it gets its head out of its ass.  Same for any other state that thinks it can tell people it's okay to refuse service based on religion.  You are free to worship as you please, but you are not free to discriminate against someone because they don't worship as you please or act according to your religious precepts.  Indiana is about to learn some expensive, painful, and probably embarrassing lessons.  Redneck Central WAS considering one of those damn fool laws but has suddenly decided not to have that conversation right now, likely because when word got out what the politicians were getting up to, a number of conventions and businesses cleared their collective throats, made stern faces, and shook their fingers in that gesture our mothers now so well.  Money talks, and bullshit laws aimed at denying rights to part of the populace based on one group's discomfiture with their sex life?  Makes money walk.
~~~~~
Every time I eat a bowl of cereal, I am surrounded.  Sprout always wants to share, and when I'm done the cats are circling like aircraft waiting to land, waiting for the leftover milk they know I won't eat/drink.  One of the cats is quite bold and sits by my bowl, watching the spoon go from bowl to mouth and back, occasionally letting out a little mewl if I am not eating fast enough or she is worried that there won't be any milk left for her.
~~~~~
I wish I could sell tickets to my dreams, they're as good as a movie and sometimes better.  I just can't figure out how to eat popcorn in my sleep.
~~~~~
If I ever meet the person or people responsible for the game Five Nights at Freddie's, I will commit mayhem on them, and no jury in the world will convict me.  Oy.
~~~~~
If the Easter candy industry is feeling a little pinched this year, I apologize - I didn't fall victim to the delicious sugary goodness as hard as I usually do this time of year.  Sorry you'll have to wait an extra year for your latest luxury vacation or condo in Vale, but I'm kinda attached to having all of my toes staying on my feet and diabetic skin ulcers ain't purty.
~~~~~
Riddle me this, dear reader - why is there so much anger, so much hatred, so much fear holding sway over the people of the world?  Compassion and love, it seems, have been bound, gagged with duct tape, and tossed in the dungeon for the duration.  What's up with that?

Mother's Lament

Sung in the key of Exhausted Minor and with as few breaths as possible because who has time to breathe?

My dear children, oh, I love you, you know I do, and I cannot imagine life without you

BUT

Sometimes when I am tidying the lounge for the umpteenth time today, or wiping something sticky, ohmygoodneesIdon'tknowifIwanttoknwwhatthatis, from the floor or window or table or chair or wall or television or bed or sink or toilet or stair or telephone or your hair or face or nether parts,

Sometimes when I am washing, drying, folding, putting away laundry or re-folding, re-putting-away, stepping on what was just washed, dried, folded, put away, refolded, re-put-away,

Sometimes when I am cleaning up toys that I just cleaned up that you played with for a few seconds before spurning them for more toys with even more, smaller parts that get lost under the furniture and you NEED those parts, those very parts, need them like oxygen, need them with an urgency surpassing all else, need them to live, now, Now, NOW!!!! and I fish them out and you barely look at them before tossing them aside and moving on to the the next future mess...er...plaything,

Sometimes when I step on, trip over, stub my toe on, sit on, run into, fall on top of, lie down upon, find in my shoe, find in my bed, find in my clothing, fish from the toilet, pull out of the dishwasher or laundry machine, remove from under the brake pedal, fish out from under the van or move out of the driveway some toy, beloved plaything, or tiny little torture device cleverly disguised as a children's toy,

Sometimes when I am telling you once again not to chase the cats, thump the fish tank, torture the cats, lock the cats in the closet or your toy box, drop the cat in the toilet no matter how much you think she needs a bath because you got her all sticky, don't play with the cat box contents, pull the cat's tail, what are you a sociopath, please be nice to the kitties they're old,

Sometimes when I am following behind as you do your paltry chores listening to you grumble about how unfair life is because doing chores means you can't Skype, play Nintendo or PSwhatevernumberitis, or play on your iPhone, or read one of your library of books or play one of your thousands of games or surf the Internet or watch TV and I am re-doing your chores and admonishing you to do them right please, and taking away your privileges because you insist on doing them wrong or not at all and telling me you DID do them,

Sometimes when I am sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, wiping, sand blasting, napalming, using dynamite, opening a portal to a nether dimension and using demonic incantations, and trying to figure out what is so sticky because I could market it as an adhesive and make a fortune so I can hire maids, lots and lots of maids,

Sometimes when I am reaching into a box or bag or container for a cracker, some cereal, a treat, some fruit, and find it empty, or worse, with barely a bite's-worth left in that box, bag, or container,

Sometimes when you are whining, fighting, aggravating each other and screaming, hollering, complaining to me that HE TOUCHED ME, SHE BREATHED NEAR ME, THIS ONE ATE MY FAVORITE GRAPE, THAT ONE TOOK THE LAST PIECE OF BREAD THAT I HATE BUT SUDDENLY WANT BECAUSE THEY HAVE IT,

Sometimes when I am putting away groceries and you are shadowing me begging for whatever I am putting away or just following me around like dingoes stalking a crippled goat and planning how to get at the food because you are clearly starving,

Sometimes when I ask if you are hungry and you tell me you are not so I make myself a sandwich and sit down for a moment and before I can take a bite you suddenly realize that you have never eaten, ever, and are incapable of so much as opening the bologna package yourself because you are so very weak, and can I give you chips with than and do you have to eat the fruit or veggie sticks and can you have dessert even though you didn't eat your meal because you were too full and any time I try to take a bite you need a question answered or a glass of milk or you don't want the milk I poured you but could I get you some water,  or juice, and you leave your half-eaten food, crusts peeled from the sandwich and ketchup (catsup) or mayo everywhere and how come there wasn't any mustard because you used it all up four days ago and didn't tell me when I asked if we needed anything at the market, had you used the last of anything, and I didn't notice because I don't use that mustard and you keep putting it back in weird places and never the same places,

Sometimes when I am finding bowls, plates, forks, knives, spoons, chopsticks, and other dishware and implements of destruction under cushions, on chairs, under the tables, on the couch, on the computer keyboard, in the refrigerator, in the hallway, in your beds where you are not supposed to have food at all,

Sometimes when I am talking on the phone and you start playing a game or video or message from outer space full blast or asking me questions that are not about why your leg has fallen off or why we are in dire peril from a raging house fire, but rather concern things like don't I think that potato chip looks like a mushroom and what's this yellow stuff and can I make your sibling stop doing whatever innocuous thing they are doing that is clearly against the Geneva Convention and I cannot hear what the person on the phone is talking about and if I try to find a quiet spot you follow me and try to climb me and pull on my clothing and want to know who I am talking to and why and can you have a sucker and why does cat hair stick to your hands after you've eaten a sucker and there's an ant in the kitchen and it's not like all the other bazillions of ants in the world and I must come see it right now or you will explode,

Sometimes when I am telling you to go to bed, please go to bed, it's time to go to bed, it was time to go to bed an hour ago, two hours ago, yesterday, please stay in your room, why are the sheets off your bed, how did you get gum in your hair while you were sleeping and I would have sworn there is no gum in the house but there it is, please get out of my bed, why did you import a pound of cat litter into my sheets, why are you awake at this hour, no you may NOT have another Popsicle, Drumstick, three layer cake, please dear goddess make them sleep or make me deaf I don't really care which right this moment,

Sometimes,  my dear, darling, beloved children,

Sometimes although I love you to the ends of the Universe and back,

Sometimes I do not like you very much at all.

Ostara, None Too Soon

It's Ostara, the vernal equinox, first day of spring.  We could, theoretically, still have a freeze, but it's less and less likely with each passing day.  The flowers in the tree line, narcissus and daffodil, have been riotous, and the yellow Kraken that is our forsythia is busting out with blooms.  The ornamental plum tree is already sending scattered showers of delicate pink petals over our heads with every errant breeze.

The kids and I are decorating eggs.  They found that the Ostara Hare paid us a visit in the night and left them a few little treats, and I make sweet rolls for breakfast so they're about as calm as a cricket on a hot plate, so the egg decorating should be a hoot.

Welcome, spring.  Welcome mellow days and blossoming things and green shoots poking up from the earth.  Welcome lengthening light and fireflies in the night.

Welcome pollen, too, and thank heavens for allergy pills!

If you celebrate Ostara, how do you?

I Woke Up Like This

Every day I face the world just as I am - no cosmetics, no form-shaping clothing, no hair products, not even nail polish.  Just me being me.

I am the same me every day.  I may have a few more lines today than I did last week, a grey hair or two that weren't there last month, but I am just honestly the me I am - always becoming, ever changing yet ever the same.

Some days I feel strong and beautiful.  More days I feel every pound, every fat cell, every line and wrinkle, every flaw, everything that is "wrong" seemingly spot lit, framed in neon blinking the message "Fat!  Old!  Ugly!  Yuck!"  I don't look in the mirror because I don't want to see - if I am feeling good, I don't want to know it's delusional.  The mirror tells the hard truth, hides nothing, and my eyes are all to eager to send the image to my brain so it can begin hammering me with criticism in my grandmother's voice.

The days I feel most fabulous, rare days and short, are the days I don't see myself, am not aware of the physicality of life, but am more wrapped up in creativity, being, doing.  Coming off of those days is rather like falling from a great height and landing without a net, thud.

I saw a little story about a photographer who has a project titled I Woke Up Like This.

Beautiful photographs of beautiful women just when they've awakened, simply themselves, living in their beautiful skins.  I want to tell them that I love them.  That we are all sisters.  That they are marvelous, glorious, inspiring.  I want for all of us to feel free in our own bodies, to feel beautiful and sexy and strong and powerful.

Meanwhile, I go about my day just as I woke up, honestly myself.  Who else would I be?

Sixth Time Is the Charm, Right?

Sixth time I'm posting this, but why mess with perfection, eh? Yeah, yeah, I'm a lazy blogger.  You still love me, right?  Right???  Why do I hear crickets...?
~~~~~
 I'm cooking corned beef and cabbage tonight, much to my family's delight - there will be plenty for dinner and enough left over for hash tomorrow. I'll try to remember to take some up to Mum next time I see her...if there's any left... Bird opted out entirely, causing me to question whether he's really mine. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child. Someone would happily scarf the lot if he was here, because he's a good Irish lad.

I'm planning on baking soda bread, too, because we like it and any leftovers can be used to make a nice doorstop or stone axe.

Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans, or some junk.

A bit of slightly bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to Paddy and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp of history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology.

 Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.

 In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.

He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. You would too if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. I'm sure the Pope understands...

Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fair, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.

I digressed. Sorry.

So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the Universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert. It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...usually around their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.
Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.

Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.

So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum! Oh, but I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me

Springy

It's the sort of day that makes even a non-gardener like me itch to go out and plant something.  I know, patience...but oooh, I'm itching to go play!  Until I can buy some seeds and soil and get busy with pots and garden beds, I am whiling away a little time perusing various seed sources.

Casa de Crazy doesn't have a ton of planting space right now.  We have a few beds for vegetables, an Iris bed, and a strawberry patch, plus a couple of blueberry plants.  There's a nice bit of earth in front of the house that wants amending and then it'll be grand for something.  I am feeling flowerish.

I want to plant my morning glories in the usual spot to the side of the stairs so they can climb their trellises and on up the house.

I found some cornflowers that I would love to plant, and some larkspur.  Hollyhocks.  Sweet peas.  Sunflowers.  Bells of Ireland look intriguing.  Nasturtium.

There are herbs I'd love to make a bed for, and of course the many vegetables and fruits...oh, I would love to have so many things, but as the summer comes on and the sun beats down, I will not be able to go out and nurture such a garden, so I'll have to keep it small and simply sigh over the catalog pictures, dreaming dreams of growing things, of fresh vegetables and vibrant flowers and a different life.

What would you like to be growing?

Some seed sources I like:  Renee's Garden, Baker Creek, Seed Saver's Exchange, Heirloom Seeds, Victory Seeds, Sustainable Seed Company, Mary's Heirloom Seeds, and The Monticello Shop, to name a few.

Do you have a favorite seed source?

Turtles

Terry Pratchett passed away today.  I am saddened by this.  I know we all follow Death through the gate eventually, but I would have liked it if he'd gone a bit longer on this side before crossing over to the next.

Monstrously unfair that it was the very mind that created the charming, engaging, intelligent, and often tart Discworld, that same mind, that turned on him and brought him too swiftly to his end.

He made me laugh.  That is one of the best accolades I can give, for all it's not worth much out there in the real world.  He made me laugh.

May his journey to the next place be swift and easy.  may he leave behind all memory of pain, sorrow, or loss but carry with him the happiness, pleasure, and love that he knew in this life.  May he be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before him, and if he returns again to this life, joins the circle once more, may those who loved him know him again.

Read Neil Gaiman's take on Terry Pratchett here.

Some quotes from Terry Pratchett here.

Terry Pratchett's take on what would lead him to the end of his days here.

There are some folks who, simply by being who they are and doing what they do, add a little lightness to the world.  From my perspective, Terry Pratchett was one such.  There will always be a place in my library for his work.

Just So You Know

I am for gay marriage.  I am for plural marriage.  I am for no marriage at all.  I am for people loving freely.  I am for leaving the defining of a relationship to those consenting adults in said relationship.  I am for keeping marriage a church function and permitting churches to dictate who may or may not marry within their religion.  I am for the state keeping itself right the hell out of that religious function.  I am for there being zero state benefit or sanction for marriage or dissolution of such bonds.  I am for their being zero state recognition, benefit, or sanction for any type of consenting adult relationship.  I am for laws that apply to everyone equally without differentiation between gender, sex, sexual preference, gods, goddesses, age, weight, height, skin color, hair color, eye color, nation of origin, or favorite shade of green.

I do not believe that the state has any business dictating religious rituals and I do not believe that any church has any business demanding that the state make exclusionary laws because that church may find certain kinds of love uncomfortable or icky.  I do not believe that it is legal or right to make laws that are pointed at only one segment of society for the purpose of denying them basic equality with the rest of society.

I believe that each person has a right to feel whatever they feel about relationships, but that their rights end where the rights of others begin - no one's fear or ignorance should be permitted to control the freedoms and rights of another.

I believe that if it is safe, sane, and consensual, there is no shame in loving...and there never should be.  I believe that love is mighty, and fearsome, and sometimes offensive to a few, but it should never be shackled or destroyed just to suit those who cannot or will not see that love, all love, is a gift that should be cherished and nurtured, not destroyed.

Babies

When I had Sprout, I got my knittin' knotted so there wouldn't be any more marvelous surprises.  One boy, one girl, one million reasons why it's not a good idea to have more.

Since I have made myself all done with babies, I can't threaten my kids with "I made you, I can make another one just like you!" and the like.  I can also call them both my babies for all time because he is my youngest boy and she is my youngest girl.  Neither one of them really likes the latter but they tolerate it from me for now.

I want more babies.  Now, now, y'all know I am nuttier than a Claxton fruitcake!  I shan't have any, not even foster or adopted, because it is not wise and it is not financially possible, but I can want them all day long without hurting anyone.  And I do.  Want.

I liked being pregnant.  I like holding a soft, warm, sweet infant.  I like rocking them and soothing them and singing to them, washing their wee feet and tickling their tummies.  I like the powerful, transformative magic that is pregnancy.  I'm staring down the barrel of middle age.  Heck, I'm halfway down that barrel!  Tick, tock, too bad, my clock ticks along and mocks me.

I am enjoying watching some friends with their babies, being a witness to their firsts and all the wonders and horrors of raising small humans.  I can hold another mother's baby, love it a bit, give it back, and that's fine.  I hope some day I'll have grand babies I can cuddle and send home full of sugar and peculiar ideas.

Meanwhile, my babies aren't so much babies any more.  Sprout's four.  Four!  The Evil Genius is twelve.  Oy!  They're a pair of contentious, fractious, constantly whirling dervishes, perpetual motion machines, super charged particles whizzing about with manic laughter and no desire to come to rest.

Yeah, I love 'em.  My babies.