For the Dead

I have been dreaming of the dead.  Of?  With?

They've been with me.

We talk.

Not ghosts.  Ghosts don't bother with me.  No, really - haunted places are suddenly not haunted when I'm around, and I have plenty of stories to back that claim.

They're kind of oblique, slippery, like they've forgotten how to say things.  They feel around for words and meanings and try to catch a hold of what they want to say, but what's clear to them is mud to me.

Mostly I like sitting with them and remembering good times.  We laugh.

Shayne's been around, and John Watson, and my grandfather.  Someone who is either my father's mother or Amelia Earhart dressing in old-timey flying togs has come to call.  Tom Swirble.  Even Miss Pat, my father's step-mother.  I really liked Miss Pat.  I never got to say farewell to her - I was in boarding school and no one told me she was ill, and when she passed I wasn't given the option to go to the funeral.  At the time I felt like no one wanted to be bothered with me, and I was left to mourn at school.  I mourned quietly and never let anyone see my tears.  That wasn't the beginning of a trend, but it certainly helped cement the behavior into place.

So, yeah, the dead are on my mind and I felt like posting some of my thoughts/rituals regarding the passing from one world to the next.
~~~~~

I believe that we honor the dead by living.

To me, Death, that incarnation of immortality, the archetype, is no one to be feared or hated.  Death is the final lover,  the last dance.  The kiss of Death is what carries us away, and that embrace is the ultimate comfort.  I don't seek Him (for me, he is male.  It is what you need it to be) but I won't run from him when it's my turn.

Prayers for the dead:

May the waters receive her gently,
Wash her clean of all sorrow,
Heal her spirit
Carry her home
May the fire burn brightly for her
Turn her burdens to ash
Warm her spirit
Light her way home
May the winds lift her softly
Clear away her confusion
Help her spirit soar
Help her fly home
May the earth embrace her
Wrap her in a loving embrace
Transform her once more
Now she is home
~~~

May her journey to the next life be swift and easy.  May she leave behind her all memory of sorrow or pain.  May she carry with her the memories of love and laughter and all that was good in her life.  May she be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before.  If she returns to the circle once more, may she be known by those who loved her in this life.
~~~

I'm the one who will laugh at a funeral.  I will tell the outrageous story.  I will remember how their eyes lit with mischief and how they taught my children inappropriate things.  I will not likely weep where you can see, but laugh?  Oh, yes, I will.  I remember the living.  The dead, I honor, but they are gone and what is left is a distillate of recollection.  I wish it to be more sweet than bitter, and so I invoke Giggliata, goddess of mirth and merriment, and I send my beloved dead away on a tide of happy tales.  I hope when I die, if anyone mourns, they'll mourn with jokes and stories full of warmth and humor.
~~~~~

What about you?  How do you feel about death and dying?

Dark Matter

A murder of crows..

A murder?  Who thought of this?  Who decided to name these avian historians such a dark and angry name when they group, as if the fault is theirs?

These crows, they fluttered, feather askew, ruffled by the capricious wind, flapped and fluttered like ragged scraps of Death's cloak torn free from his regalia and flung skyward with little heed for up or down or any compass points.  Scattered into the dusking sky, harbingers of another soul parted from form.

Soul, or spirit?  What's the difference?

It was a deer, doe, unwary, perhaps not understanding the huge and forceful mechanical monster that bore down on her with speed she couldn't comprehend or calculate, catching her mid-leap then tossing her aside and roaring onward with no consequence save maybe a chipped tooth and a shaking driver who has somewhere to be, can't stop, stupid deer should've known better, on a timetable, dammit I hope she didn't wreck my front end.

The crows are brave, hopping to the side of the road and then back to her bounty.

Soul or spirit?

She's an animal.

Ego would have us believe that she has no soul, for animals are dumb in more than one sense.  But spirit they may have, for spirit is that little bit of the divine that all living things carry.

Soul, well, soul is for humans, only for humans, only for us because we are thinking, reasoning, self-aware, and more than that, aware of what is beyond us, of the indefinable.  We are uniquely able to see through the light into the heart of darkness, if we dare.

Beautiful dark.

I love the dark,

I hate it.

Cold and slick, it slips around me with sibilant whispers and intimations of what should.

What should?

This and that and anything that isn't.

I love the dark, the night pierced by stars and streaming light and the inexorable dance of the planets into entropy's embrace and the music that dayfolk tremble to hear in all its ecstasy.  Fearful, beautiful, loathsome, beloved dark.

I love the crows.  Tell me a story, cousin.  Harsh cries of "Aww!  AWW!!" back and forth and sometimes they land and turn their heads this way and that, staring at me and wondering what I am asking, what I am trying to tell with my hoarse, coarse mimicry of their tongue.

The crows don't know what should.  They only know what was and what is.  Something dies and they feast and remember and tell the tale and it carries from generation to generation from beginning to end, and in the end when the final darkness folds itself around everything, it will be the collective "Aww!  AWW!!" that rolls out and slowly dies into a near imperceptible vibration that shakes the single point loose and bursts outward into the new being, rooted in the old and ringing with that corvid call.

But we're the ones with souls, I'm told, immortal souls that mark us as more and better and other and all that, and certainly the deer was beautiful in her life, and graceful, but I with my clunky motion and graceless form am the better?  She provides life even in death and what do I do, in life, that is her equal?

I'm surrounded by death - dead eyed people staring at me because maybe I shine too bright within my darkness and maybe I don't care what they see with their flat eyes and cold gazes, dead spirited people who claim to have more soul, better soul because they pay lip service to something they don't believe, really, or at least they act contrary to the thing they worship.

All those shadows and shades, they don't like anything that isn't them and they claim soul as theirs alone and curse anything else.

The soul is immortality and so we are immortal, but that deer, she'll live forever in the crow's tales and in everything that feeds upon her carcass, certainly live long past the time the driver who hit her shuffles off this mortal coil and is buried in some vault where his body will never rejoin the whole and his precious soul will find itself astonished at suddenly being a deer wondering what that strange black surface is and if it can be crossed to find sweeter grass on yonder side, and what is that whistling, roaring noise?

If You Really Loved Me...

I'm fairly certain we've all heard the words.  

They're often meant to be a goad or admonishment.

"If you really loved me you'd..."

What?

I'd what?  Do something that I don't like?  Compromise my integrity?  Change who I am?  Alter my foundation?  Make your happiness and well-being the most important things in my life to the exclusion of everything else including myself?

Bah.

If I really love you, I expect you to be yourself.  I expect us to be able to disagree, to be different, to want and need different things, and to be okay with that.

If I really love you I will trust you with my fear, my joy, my desire, my truth.  If you really love me, you will do the same with me.

If I really love you I will give you the gift of my compassionate, passionate honesty.  I will tell you if that dress isn't flattering or you have spinach in your teeth or your soup was a bit salty but still pretty darned good.  If you really love me you will tell me when my hair is a fright or I'm being rude or grumpy or that my socks don't match when they are supposed to (because sometimes they aren't supposed to and you understand that, too).

If I really love you I won't try to pretend or hide or wear a false smile - I will let you see me dirty, depressed, frazzled, and worn.  I expect the same.

Love isn't ownership.  Love isn't dictatorial.  Love isn't a bargain or petition.  Love isn't a debt.

If I really love you...if you really love me...then what we love is the whole, not parts we've picked and chosen with the idea that what we don't like should be changed for the sake of that love.

If you really loved me...you would love me just as I am and accept that I love you just as you are.

Sweet Surrender

I think that to love is to open.  To love is to become vulnerable to all that is painful.  To love is to accept that we will inevitably lose, to accept that what we love may one day spread wide its wings and fly away, leaving us bereft, but in the meantime?  In the meantime we have this glorious thing perched upon our hearts.

I think that to love we must understand grief, and hatred, and fear, and accept that loving can be these things and more.  I think that to love we must understand laughter, and compassion, and loyalty and accept that loving can be these things and more.  I think we must accept that we will be marked, scarred, painted, made weak, made strong.

I think that love is not blind, it is eyes wide open and seeing the depths and the truths and loving them as part of the whole.

I think that loving is letting go of ego and our perception of how we and all other beings should be, accepting that what is may not be what we want, or think we want, but it is enough and we are enough and love isn't a thing of definitions or boundaries.

I think that love is not earned, it is given and received freely.  It is not predicated upon a paycheck or bank account or possessions or window dressing.  It is far deeper.

I think that love can be terrifying and mysterious and a burden and a marvel.

I think that questioning the how or the why of love is a fool's pastime.

I think that accepting love is a Herculean task.

I believe that we are all equal to that task, if we allow ourselves to be.

Perfect Love, Perfect Trust

Repost.  Sorry.  Feeling low.
~~~~~
If you're pagan, especially one of the flavours of Wiccan, you hear this a lot: "In perfect love and perfect trust."

Several things have made "perfect love, perfect trust" run through my head lately.

My son...he brings to mind a mundane version of perfect love. He's a child and loves as a child does, without quantifying, without questioning, absolutely. All that matters to him is that he loves me and I love him, and that's just fine.

My ex-husband has not been very trusting. He wasn't while we were married, and he's still struggling with it now that we're not. I never gave him cause to distrust me, and had no idea the level to which the distrust went until we began the divorce and he was angry and saying things from a place of anger and uncertainty. He's trying very hard to let go of his distrust...and it's not easy. I am trying very hard not to take it personally and to be gentle with him in his process...and it's not easy.

I had a friend, some years back, whom I loved dearly. If not for him, I would not have met K, the sister of my heart, or any number of other folks who mean much to me and figure largely in my life...including the people I'm in the band with. We had a falling out. I had to take a stand on an issue, and he didn't like my position (neither did I, come to think of it, but it was necessary, if unpleasant)...so he chose to remove himself from my life. I still love him...but from a distance, because I must respect his feelings.

My friend Gypsy is a fairly recent addition to my life. She's beautiful, dynamic, and brilliant. I met Kit through Gypsy. Kit's another creative, bright, amazing woman. Gypsy and Kit have kids of varying ages, and between us we've got the whole range from infant to school-aged. I trust them with my child, would leave him with either of them (and have) without thought, without worry, absolutely certain that they'll look after him and do right by him.

I've asked many pagans to define perfect love and perfect trust for me. I usually wind up with an idealized definition, one that (to me) seems deeply flawed. In general, it seems, people actually think perfect love means perfect like, too - that the people with whom we share circle all get along and are nice and sweet and...er...gag... Perfect trust? Means no one makes mistakes and everyone behaves perfectly and...umm...barf...

Not that I think it's impossible to be perfect. But the few "perfect" people I've met in my life? Have been rotten at the core. They have a veneer of civility, or trustworthiness, that fools us all...until that one little slip.

I don't trust that kind of perfection.

Here's what I think (yep, I made you read through all that horse-puckey up there just for this - ain't I a stinker??): I love you for who you are and despite who you are. I love you with your flaws gloriously on display and your strengths there for me to wonder at. And I love you absolutely...even when I have to do it from a distance because that's the safest, healthiest place to be. I trust you to be yourself, utterly and honestly, without fear or shame or o'erweening pride. I trust you not to hide you fear and anger, your sorrow or hurt. I trust you not to hide your laughter and silliness, your whimsy and imagination. I trust you to be consistently who you are...even when that means you lie, cheat, and steal, because that's your nature. The person isn't the one who is perfect - the love, the trust are.

How about you? How do you define "perfect love and perfect trust"?

Physics of Being

Hmm.

According to Physics, I am not here.

I am simply more likely to be here than not here.

You are not here.

You are simply more likely to be here than not here.

No one, nothing, is here.

Only more likely to be than not to be.

Hey, Shakespeare was on to something!

I think I'll go be more likely to be somewhere else for a bit.

If you are here (or there), or simply more likely to be here (or there), I hope wherever you are more likely to be than not to be is pleasant.

If you could manipulate the likelihood of being and placeness, who/where/what would you alter?

Humans, Being

I am a human being.

You are a human being.

We are being human.

We will struggle.

We will fail.

We will succeed.

We will struggle again.

We will be weak.

We will be strong.

We will be.

We are humans, being.

Home

Home is where the heart is.

Home is where you hang your hat.

Home is...more than a cliche.

I live in a house. I call it "home". It is my home in the traditional sense - it's a structure wherein I dwell and keep all my crap priceless family heirlooms. The house does not belong to me, but it's mine. Maybe some day I'll explain that.

But is it...home?

I think home is more than a receptacle for junk, a structure.

Much as I love Casa de Crazy (drafty, energy inefficient, not-green, monstrous cracker box thought it be), and its location...it's really just a house.

Home, for me, isn't a place, it's a feeling.

Home is with the Evil genius, Someone, and Mum... When we are together in one place, whatever that place, I'm home. Home is within the circle of Someone's arms, or the Evil Genius's small embrace, or the comfort of Mum's calm, sure voice when I call her in distress. It's the purring of happily nestled cats, content to pass the night curled up around me on the bed, nesting in the blankets. Home is in the small, fluttering, insistent movements of the Sprout as she wriggles and shifts, kicks and jabs, lets me know she's there and has taken up Irish dancing to pass the time.

Home is an abstract sense of belonging, of love, of comfort and solace.

It's devilish hard to define, isn't it? Where's home, for you?

Where Gods Live

I used to say "God is why. Not the answer, the question."

Talk to a young child and you'll understand. They ask "Why?" a lot. Why is the sky blue? Why can't I stick a fork in the outlet? Why?

For every question you answer, they have another waiting in the wings. If you're reasonably intelligent, reasonably educated, you can go a long time before you get to "I don't know."

But when you get to "I don't know" you've found one of the places where Gods dwell. Eventually, no matter how smart we are, no matter how much we know...we come to the place where we don't have an answer. Thanks to science and technology, that place is a long way off from our daily life, but it's still there. The place of mystery, of unanswered questions, the murky dark where there be dragons...and Gods.

I've heard it said that Science killed God. Respectfully, I disagree. Certainly, Science has removed some of the mystery behind the world in which we live...but for every answer it finds, more questions come up, and eventually I think even Science will come to a stumbling halt at the final "Why?" and go to its knees.

I think, too, that Gods live in uncertainty. I can make every effort to choose wisely, to walk with eyes open, knowingly, along my oath...but there will inevitable come a time when I find the trail divided, and have no way to know what will happen down the way. Which trail do I take, which choice to I make? Ah...there the Gods are, hovering in the background, silently helping me feel my was along until I can find my own way again. Even when I've chosen a rougher road, I know they're there when I need them, lending an arm to lean on, helping when I falter or fail, dusting me off and setting me right again.

I've felt them in my life, my Gods and Goddesses, felt their warm presence, their love, their joy...never have I felt them punishing me (I do that to myself better than they could), but often have I felt them bolstering me when I felt small and weak in the Universe.

They live in "Why?" and in "Help!", in sea and stone and cloud and sun, and in me. How about you?

Perfect Love, Perfect Trust

If you're pagan, especially one of the flavours of Wiccan, you hear this a lot: "In perfect love and perfect trust."

Several things have made "perfect love, perfect trust" run through my head lately.

My son...he brings to mind a mundane version of perfect love. He's a child and loves as a child does, without quantifying, without questioning, absolutely. All that matters to him is that he loves me and I love him, and that's just fine.

My ex-husband has not been very trusting. He wasn't while we were married, and he's still struggling with it now that we're not. I never gave him cause to distrust me, and had no idea the level to which the distrust went until we began the divorce and he was angry and saying things from a place of anger and uncertainty. He's trying very hard to let go of his distrust...and it's not easy. I am trying very hard not to take it personally and to be gentle with him in his process...and it's not easy.

I had a friend, some years back, whom I loved dearly. If not for him, I would not have met K, the sister of my heart, or any number of other folks who mean much to me and figure largely in my life...including the people I'm in the band with. We had a falling out. I had to take a stand on an issue, and he didn't like my position (neither did I, come to think of it, but it was necessary, if unpleasant)...so he chose to remove himself from my life. I still love him...but from a distance, because I must respect his feelings.

My friend Gypsy is a fairly recent addition to my life. She's beautiful, dynamic, and brilliant. I met Kit through Gypsy. Kit's another creative, bright, amazing woman. Gypsy and Kit have kids of varying ages, and between us we've got the whole range from infant to school-aged. I trust them with my child, would leave him with either of them (and have) without thought, without worry, absolutely certain that they'll look after him and do right by him.

I've asked many pagans to define perfect love and perfect trust for me. I usually wind up with an idealized definition, one that (to me) seems deeply flawed. In general, it seems, people actually think perfect love means perfect like, too - that the people with whom we share circle all get along and are nice and sweet and...er...gag... Perfect trust? Means no one makes mistakes and everyone behaves perfectly and...umm...barf...

Not that I think it's impossible to be perfect. But the few "perfect" people I've met in my life? Have been rotten at the core. They have a veneer of civility, or trustworthiness, that fools us all...until that one little slip.

I don't trust that kind of perfection.

Here's what I think (yep, I made you read through all that horse-puckey up there just for this - ain't I a stinker??): I love you for who you are and despite who you are. I love you with your flaws gloriously on display and your strengths there for me to wonder at. And I love you absolutely...even when I have to do it from a distance because that's the safest, healthiest place to be. I trust you to be yourself, utterly and honestly, without fear or shame or o'erweening pride. I trust you not to hide you fear and anger, your sorrow or hurt. I trust you not to hide your laughter and silliness, your whimsy and imagination. I trust you to be consistently who you are...even when that means you lie, cheat, and steal, because that's your nature. The person isn't the one who is perfect - the love, the trust are.

How about you? How do you define "perfect love and perfect trust"?

Soaring, Tumbling

(Photo snagged from the Blue Nowhere in a random search)

I remember playing on the teeter-totters when I was a kid. When I had a good partner, one who wasn't too heavy or too light, one who knew how to balance with me, it was brilliant - up, up, up I'd go, rushing to meet the sky, and then down, down, down I'd sink, to thunk into the earth if I didn't catch myself first.

It was fun, too, to try and send someone flying by dropping my weight suddenly on the seat...and then stand or hop off and let them drop suddenly to the ground. We took turns, of course, being the one to fly.

No one told us we were learning lessons about levers, about moving disparate weights with minimum effort, about shifting the world...

We were children and knew nothing of how life, mood, emotion, could be like our playground toy, shooting up and hurtling down with sometimes frightening velocity.

If we closed our eyes, sometimes we became lost in the experience, set adrift in the spinning sensation that came milliseconds before the jolt when we'd crested or bottomed out.

Some days...some days I feel myself soaring ever higher. Head thrown back, laughing, I float upward and taste joy, taste blue sky, revel in that weightlessness, the elation of the rise.

Some days...some days I wonder if I reached the pinnacle and am now tumbling in a free-fall, down to the earth. I wonder, if I am falling, can I catch myself? Will my legs bear up under the impact of my landing? Or will I crumble this time, land on my ass with a bone-jarring thud?

Most days...most days I hope for content in my life. I know I'm in a state of transition, shifting from up to down, down to up, in constant motion, and I'm OK with that. Up a little, down a little, hovering around the balance point sounds just fine to me...

Of the three, I like balance the best. Oh, great joy is something to treasure, and sorrow is something to be borne, but balance...balance is what I desire, because the highs don't equal the lows, and the lows go ever deeper, and hovering near the middle sounds just fine to me.

What We Miss

My friend Gypsy sent me a lovely e-mail on Tuesday. Here it is, with my response.
~~~~~
The e-mail:

(For the original story in full, go here. At the top if the story is a link to the audio of the performance - beautiful...)

Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approx 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

4 minutes later:The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the till and, without stopping, continued to walk.

6 minutes:A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

10 minutes:A 3 year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly, as the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.

45 minutes:The musician played. Only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32.

1 hour:He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities. The questions raised: in a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be:If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments...

How many other things are we missing?
~~~~~
My reply:

One night, late, I was walking through downtown Atlanta, heading for the MARTA station and the last train to where my car was parked at the north end of the line.

I had maybe a few minutes before it was a long walk home.

Outside the station was a man with a coffee cup. He sang gospel and blues music, eyes close, head tilted upward, carried by his songs to some other place. He was older, dressed shabbily, and black - in other words, marginalized by society and the very person I was taught (as a young white woman) to fear, to ignore.

He sang beautifully, a little roughness on the edges of his notes, but the music was clean, and sweet. He happened to be singing something I knew, and knew well. The train was coming, I knew...but some things are more important. I stopped and sang with him, harmonizing his baritone with my alto.

I had train fare and a little more in my pocket, and that was it. I was young, constantly broke, and didn't have coin to spare for anything...every penny was accounted for, saved for rolling to pay the next bill, buy the next lot of groceries...but I could miss a meal or do without the phone for a day or two. I put everything but my train fare into his little Styrofoam cup, when we'd finished singing. I never asked his name, nor he mine, and we didn't exchange anything but the music and his soft "thank you, miss" as I walked on...

I like to think that maybe I wouldn't recognize the young man as Joshua Bell (because honestly, I don't know who he is)(but you can bet I'm going to look him up!) but I would recognize the music, and the beauty of the soul behind it, and I like to think that I would stop, smile, share the song, and empty what I can spare and a bit more besides into his violin case as a thanks for sending a little more of the song out into the world. I like to think I would not be in such a rush that I couldn't pause and let my child revel in the wonder of the notes pouring forth from the strings, catching them with his eager ears and storing them for later days in his memory's hoard.

I like to think I DO see the small things...that I DON'T miss the beauty and wonder that surrounds me...and I like to think I'm blessed with friends like you who notice, too, and share it because sharing makes it all the better.

Heart Versus Head

A conversation with a friend last night led me to thinking. I know, dangerous.

What do you do when your heart wants one thing and your head another?

When your heart says fly, do you slip from your earthly bonds and soar? What if your head reminds you that there are practicalities to consider before running toward your dreams?

Your heart says "Go!!" but your head says "Patience, bide a while."

Me? I'd like to be a romantic. I'd like to say I let my heart lead me. I can't, though. I'm too pragmatic - too prone to weighing options and considering consequences, considering loss and gain. Boring.

I so seldom let go and do what I want. Annoying, really.

How about you? When head and heart cannot agree, who do you listen to, and why? What have the consequences been, and were they worth it?

Between Times

My Monday has begun while others sleep. It has begun while Sunday lingers elsewhere. I am aware of this. Not simply because I know, but because I feel - feel tugged to linger in yesterday even as today begins apace and tomorrow waits its turn to roll steadily onward.

I am aware that I am between times, planted solid in the middle of the Witching hour, an endless midnight following the line, the chiaroscuro of day and night that chases its tail around the planet, ceaseless.

I am aware that now, as I define it, is the same moment you experience; my now, your now, are twined, inseparable, identical despite our disparate experience of these moments.

The air I exhale becomes your inhalation. The breath that leaves you enters me. We mingle. The moment you live, I live, too. We're reflecting light out into the Universe and absorbing the reflections it sends back to us, and it all spins ceaselessly in these between times.

My Monday. Your Sunday. All the same. It's only our perception that keeps us apart. Perception is everything.

Perceive differently.

I'll be waiting in the endless potential, between times.

Juxtaposed*

Yesterday was an odd sort of day.

I was happy to wake to a clean house and plans to walk the faire. The clean house was my Mother's Day gift, and better than flowers (they fade) or breakfast in bed (ugh, crumbs) or a piece of jewelry that isn't my style but I'd have to wear anyway because it was a gift. Walking the faire was something for the family to do as...well...a family.

I enjoyed trying on garb until I found a new outfit, and was delighted with the new, knee-high black boots with blue laces that will match my costuming. I felt like a kid again. I was a kid again, shopping for a costume with my Mum, playing dress-up in a way I never did as a child. We neither of us forgot, though, that sorrow was nibbling around the edges.

I loved seeing my son have fun, play games, win little prizes that are worth nothing and yet are invaluable because he smiled and smiled and laughed and his eyes twinkled and shone with a child's perfect light.

I was sad to think about my Aunt D, whom I loved from a distance. I was sad to think of her children, who (grown though they be, are still her children) losing their mother just before Mother's Day...a day they would be constantly reminded of other's joy and their own loss.

The sorrow and the pleasure were overlapping, juxtaposed, intertwined, inseparable.

How very like all of life, the bitter and the sweet mingling, so well blended that one may not be parted from the other.

*I seem to be thinking/using this word a great deal of late. What are the planets up to??

Minutes and Days

It is morning, quiet, the house still, holding its breath, anticipating the coming day. Three cats are curled beside me, purring commas, delighted to fill the space between me and the man sleeping next to me (turned on his side, deeply asleep, unaware of the world outside the dreams swirling through his head).

The room is shaded, but not dark, a sort of halfway light that could be dawn, could be dusk, could be any of the in-between times of day when the eyes can't tell the time and a clock must do the trick.

I pet the cats, careful not to startle them into frantic, charged motion - I don't want them launching themselves from my leg, or his, digging claws in for purchase, leaving behind unwanted racing stripes.

I close my eyes for a few more minutes, drift between minds and places, float a bit before returning. How long was I gone? It felt like hours, but only minutes have passed.

There are minutes like that in every day - minutes stretched to their limits, full to bursting, suspending their normal tick and tock to hang in breathlessness, endless. Bad news, good news, no news, minutes that take forever to unpause and get moving into the next hour.


Then there are the days...days that boom across the hours, racing in their anxiety to be spent, done, to push through and pass the baton to the next span of the sun's journey. I wake, on these sprinting days, and suddenly I find myself readying for bed - despite all the long minutes between times, the day is done and I wonder where it has gone.

It is March, nearly April, and the balloon from Bird's birthday still hovers at the end of its ribbon tether, depleted but proud. I am caught, still in January when the shiny Mylar was plump, and new, and now, when it hangs like a soap bubble, not entirely sure what is keeping it up.

I'm hanging in time like that balloon, like the bubbles, caught between the dawn of creation and the end that, with a surety, is a sudden pop! before it all begins again.

Whirling in a mix of eternal minutes and rushing days, year passing years, gone before I've had a moment to grasp them, make them mine before releasing them again.

A Web

I was a point of light, a mote in the great vast void, a speck floating, suspended in darkness. Alone, lonely, I spun from myself a thread - so slender, so slight, so very fragile, my thread. As I spun, I flung it outward, silver strand reaching ever farther into the deeper reaches of the nothing wherein I dwelt.

For so long did I wait, did I wonder, did I spin myself smaller and thinner, stretching beyond imagination. For so long was I alone. I sang to myself, humming as I worked, forgetting, eventually, why I spun, why I reached beyond myself, continuing because...because...because...

Then came the day...the night...the moment when my thread found another, spun from some new, distant mote like me, hanging in its darkness, humming to itself and wondering why...why...why...

The shock of our meeting was such that we fell silent, struggling to comprehend what we had touched, what it meant. Slowly, tentatively, we explored the newness, the other light, the other song. Hesitant, we began to hum again, to spin, and our notes were a harmony, a convergence of color and sound, and from one alone we were two together.

We were stronger, together.

We began to spin, to reach, in other directions. The other found more, and so did I, and every new thread meant new connection, new understanding, a growing song. Every touch, every joining, made us more than ourselves, brought us vision beyond our small scope, broadened us, until we could not be contained in our small darknesses but burst forth, spreading far and wide, a great net of light and being, gossamer fine, adamantine strong, blazing in our quiet way, where anyone may walk without fear, knowing they cannot fall unless they leap, and we are above, below, around, and we will catch them when they call for us.

We are a web spun of great blazing suns and tiny specks that have never met, never seen, but we have listened, we have sung, and we have touched and joined and changed and grown into a great prismatic cacophony, knowing we exist because we reflect each other, because we can hear that faint singing down the line, the ethereal combination of vision and song that is the other and ourselves.

I am a point of light, a mote in the great vast void, a speck floating, suspended in darkness, but I am only as alone as I wish to be, for I spun, stretched, reached beyond my small space, into the deeper reaches of the nothing wherein I dwelt...

...and found you.

Forgiven*

A few days ago I was driving into a spectacular sunset, golden light rippling across bridge abutments, spilling down hills and racing tree shadows into dusk. Peach, pink, turquoise, azure, and deepest evening blue were graced with tiny cloud-chips, back lit by retiring Sol, bright clusters of water droplets transformed by light into gems fit for the gods.

On the odd occasions when I am in the van alone, I tend to think aloud, perhaps work out plot points or character development for a new story, or try to work out where to go next when I'm stuck between point A and point B in a narrative.

On this occasion, I was thinking about what motivates people to behave as they do. What influences us, who influences us, long after an event, an interaction is past? Why would a character act in a certain way? Why do people act in a certain way? Why do I act in a certain way?

What people or events have shaped how I interact with the world today?

When we hold on to negative emotions, negative responses, negative influences, we hurt more than ourselves - clinging to our drama, our trauma, means forcing those who've done us harm to remain as we knew them, to maintain the roll of aggressor, of wrong-doer.

By holding onto the memories of the wrong done to me, by keeping them alive and allowing them to shape who and what I am today, I am also keeping those who hurt me as they were - I do not give them a chance to grow or evolve, to become better people...rather, I am helping to imprison them in my definition of their character.

I hold us all back.

That seems remarkably cruel.

So while I was driving and thinking, I started a sort of chant.

I spoke a name, the name of someone who harmed me (in my perception...and perception is everything) in some way, and added "I forgive you. I forgive you for (whatever event I had been clinging to)", three times per name. It was a sort of letting go, and it felt good.

To forgive someone for doing harm, to let them go and let them evolve, to cease limiting them to my one experience with them, felt like an act of power. Now, even if they don't let go, if they continue along their path the same way, if they remember and feel bad or justified or anything at all about an event, I'm not stuck in the moment with them.

Letting others determine how we live, sometimes even years later, is to give over control of our lives to them. Forgiving, letting go, moving on, is reclaiming that control, reclaiming life. It may take more than one amazing evening sky, more than one bout of introspection, but it's a start, and I felt somehow lighter for having done it.

Who are you holding onto, holding back, giving over control to? Think you can let them go today?

*Edit - I meant to include a mention of what reminded me of the above evening drive. Over at Namasdaisy there's a lovely post about parenting, and one paragraph struck a chord for some reason, and put me in mind of forgiveness: "Some needs are universal, and there is nothing so detrimental to a full life than the feeling that we are adults who have somehow arrived at a plateau where we no longer carry the need to search, expand or endeavor to change. " I think it was the bit about endeavoring to change...anyway, go give her a look if you like - she's a sweetheart!

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

I hope that nothing I write here will offend anyone - but I'm fairly certain that it will. I hope it won't run anyone off, but it's a risk I am obviously willing to take. It is, after all, my blog, a place for me to write the things rattling around in my head and set them loose to bother someone else for a while so I can have a nap. I am afraid that this will be long, because it's not an easy subject for me to discuss, and I haven't really had an opportunity to reach any sort of clarity with it. Hopefully it'll be worth enduring, and also give you pause for thought. It's OK if you don't agree with me...sometimes I don't think I make any sense, either.

First, a little history on how I got to writing this post, because you may need a little help sleeping: Because I am such a slacker fabulous mum, I have spent a large chunk of my day an hour or so meandering around Blogopolis. I was doing my usual daily perusal of sites, hopping from one to another with an ease born of familiarity. On my way through Dad Gone Mad (a Daddy blog worth reading, even if I am a mum) and decided to check out his forums. I'm a sucker for a well developed forum. One of them has links to folks needing help and support - causes that DGM's readers think are worth time and/or money. One of the people I already knew about, and posted about her here a while back - Crystal from Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper. The other two, I hadn't heard of, but being the intrusive curious critter that I am, I went on over and looked.

I read this post, and then poked around a little more on the blog, and it sparked some thoughts. Lucky, lucky you, I am now going to share them.

First, I think it despicable that anyone would use the court system as a means of vengeance. It's called the Justice System for a reason. Carrying out personal vendettas against others by lambasting them with legal fees, calls to court, lies and obfuscation is cowardly. Using a person's religion, politics, or beliefs in personal freedom against them in an effort to show them unfit is equally cowardly. Threatening to take children away from a mum simply because he doesn't want her to have them make a man less a man and more...well, honestly, I can't think what. There's not a critter in the animal kingdom low enough, and I wouldn't like to insult another life form by making a comparison. *Edit - this is equally true of women using the tactic against daddies. If you continually lose, you might want to reexamine your whole basis of complaint. Also, when you have made children, your first responsibility will always be to them and their needs, whether you like who the kids are with or not.

Granted, I don't know the folks over at Anarchangel, and am writing this after reading only their POV, but I am OK with being lopsided and biased a little. It balances out my constant need to be fair elsewhere.

So I think it stinks to high heaven that someone can use their financial means to try and wrench kids from their parents, and cases like this are a prime example of why people with real legal needs are often left in the dust, with no recourse but to take the kids and run or just give up.

Even if this particular tale hadn't set me off, there are others. Cases where divorcing parents have used religion as a means to take children away from each other (it was OK to be Pagan while we were married, but now that I'm dumping her for someone my mommy likes better, her Paganism is a means for her to corrupt and abuse my children, and no I don't think her clean, loving, smoke free home is a better place than my beer-fueled-nightly-tirade-filled-half-a-trailer, your honor, because I'm Christian and that's my trump card. Burp.)(I know that's offensive - but it happened. To someone I know. Not a friend of a friend. Someone I actually know.)(Although perhaps I am exaggerating a mite...I'm pretty sure he didn't actually burp in court, or admit that he was an alcoholic, drug using, spouse and child abusing asshole to the judge, and the only reason he wanted the kids was to hurt her and get child support. And the only basis he had for complaint was that she was Pagan. Which was fine with him until he started cheating on her with a teenage waitress. Oh, yes he did. Springer episode in two parts, truly)(And while it may seem like I'm generalizing about a religion here, I don't mean to - I have Christian family and friends whom I adore and who love me no matter who, where, or how I worship, bless 'em) make me angry.

So it isn't about religion for these folks...it amounts to the same thing - a strongly held belief in personal freedom and responsibility being used against someone to try and punish them. Please. Keeping a gun in the house isn't abuse - beating your child bloody, making their life hell, verbally abusing them, sexually abusing them, or allowing others to do so - that's abuse. A gun in the house needn't be any more dangerous than keeping a butcher's knife.

Enough - I am getting myself all riled up.

The second thing I thought about was gun ownership. I am a staunch supporter of the Bill of Rights and believe in personal freedom and responsibility above law. I think a government should protect the borders of its nation, enact and enforce the laws of its citizenry, and always remember that it serves the nation's people, not itself. Hah!! I believe that people should be permitted, if they so choose, to own, carry, and even use when necessary, firearms.

My father hunts. My brother used to hunt, and would still if he had the time. My father-in-law hunts. I benefit from the skills of the hunters who use my mum's land, because they are kind enough to share venison with her, and she with me. I grew up in a home with rifles, shotguns, handguns, crossbows, and knives. For all I know, there was a cannon in my grandfather's attic - we are sea-faring folk, after all. I ate game animals and birds on a regular basis thanks to the skills of our family hunters. No one ever got shot, either by accident or on purpose. I even learned to shoot - first with a .22 rifle, then a .22 handgun. I wasn't all that bad, either.

Having said all that...oh, dear...I must admit here that...sigh... I don't like handguns. Hunting guns are different - they provide food, and my philosophy has no difficulty with that. It's the handguns that bother me.

Life is so complex, so special, so very unlikely that I have difficulty with anything that makes it so easy to take away. Guns are...impersonal. I feel that if you simply must take a life, it should have meaning and be deeply personal. It should never be easy. It should take thought, effort, a consciousness of your act. It should be visceral. There, I've said it. Of course I know that's insane. I don't hold with going around killing folks for kicks, or to take what they've earned but you want to steal. It's all terribly wrong to me.

Because of the way I feel, I don't believe that I could use a gun on another human. Because I don't believe I could use a gun on another human being, I will not carry one. This make T unhappy. He wishes I would. He used to ask me to, but has given up on it (at least for now). I won't though. Carrying a weapon you won't use is just another way of arming the thugs. I'd carry a knife if they gave permits for that...or better yet, a sword. I am a complete geek, I know. A blade doesn't discomfit me the way a handgun does, though. I believe I could use a blade to defend myself or my family. I could not use a gun.

Because of the way I feel, I am teaching my son what I call The Rules of Guns:
1. You never point a gun at anything unless you intend to shoot it.
2. You never shoot at anything unless you intend to kill it.
3. You never kill anything unless you intend to eat it or it is in defense of your life.

I have no issue with people who hunt and enjoy it - as long as they are not hunting wastefully and for trophies. I do have issues with trophy hunting. I think it's arrogant and disrespectful, at the very least. I don't even have a problem with mounting dead things on the wall, if that's what people are into - as long as the critter once attached to the mounted body parts was actually used for something besides decor. You know - like clothing or stew or something. I believe that a life taken must be used to its utmost, or it is dishonored, as is the one who took it. Maybe I should make a fourth rule - always honor the life you've taken.

I have not banned guns from the house. I think it's important that Bird learns that they exist, that there are rules and consequences to them, and that he has to obey these rules or suffer the consequences. Come to think of it, I think everyone who has a gun of any sort should learn those things. I don't refuse to associate with people who keep and carry handguns or other firearms. I know that most owners are careful, responsible, rational people, and I do feel safer sometimes knowing they're there - if you'd been some of the places I have, you might feel the same.

I don't yell at my son for playing "guns" with his fingers or sticks or whatever - I just quietly remind him of the rules. He may only be five, but he has them memorized and can repeat them with just a little help.

I wish I wasn't such a wuss, so squeamish about them. In the abstract, the power, chemistry, mechanical engineering, and ingenuity that they embody is awesome. I even think some of them have a terrible beauty to them. But I don't like them, so I won't use them. Collect them, perhaps, but not use them. I am told I'd likely change my mind if someone threatened Bird. I don't know. I hope I never find out.

T carries a magnum somethingorother...one of those great big ones. He can do the shooting while I do the dialing-of-911. Yes, I realize that smacks of cowardice and sexism both, but I can own who and what I am, at least in this.

I could go on, but I really do need a shower and a nap, and to let my somewhat overheated brain cool off a bit. Whatever your feelings on the above, I hope you'll go give Anarchagel a read - they've got some terrific geekery that confused me entirely, a few cartoons, and they are refreshingly honest. Also, it's two people sharing one blog, which I find astonishing since I don't even really like sharing a computer with T, never mind a blog!!