My kids are off on the first week of Spring Break this week. They get two weeks, so next week, when they are back home hanging with me is when we will do all the fun stuff. This week belongs to the Spring-cleaning Fairy known as Mom.
Okay, Mom is not fair. I will not be tackling my children's rooms at all in their absence. Truth is, we do enough reduce, reuse, recycle all year to not need the giant clean-out that comes with the month of March. We have established the "lost sock basket" for all those socks that mysteriously have no mates at the end of the dryer cycle; the "too small box" for all clothes that show too much belly, too much ass, too much ankle, or too much forearm but not a big enough neck; and an "I hate this" bag for all the clothes that are stained, torn, never did fit quite right, or have changed shape because of general wear and wash. Toys have a similar life cycle.
So no, not Mom, but instead, I am doing the garage. My stuff, stashed for keeping or hoarded for projects that have just been collecting. I found a box of preschool-teaching materials (I will tell you about my adventures as a Child Development Center Director some other time) that I used with my children before they started pre-school and have long since outgrown. I have been lugging these boxes around for years and years, full of art projects, and math games, and letter writing supplies. There is an entire program on Money and Time-telling. There are bulletin board cutouts. There are mini-report card/congratulations/graduation/completion/you-made-it forms and buttons. There are actual mimeograph stencil papers for use on those old (wonderful smelling) copy-turn-drum machines. What the heck did I still need all this stuff for?
Yes, I will do the right thing, and post it to Freecycle now that it is off my shelves and out of boxes, and let some homeschooler or kindergarten teacher have it all. It will get a new good home, or at least on that is not in my garage, thank you very much.
But, I also found the art supplies. I found glitter. I found glue sticks. I found string. I found PeopleColor pens and paint. I found origami paper. I knew I had origami paper somewhere. I wished I could have found it when my son was reading "The Strange Case of Origami Yoda" and "Darth Paper Strikes Back" but that might be worth a bed time story or two next week. I found stick-on jewels, and colorful plastic shapey thingys. I found my craft box full of paper edgers and punches and wavy/curly/zig zaggy scissors. I found jewelry supplies. All hidden behind-and-around-and-in-back-of. I had forgotten all about them. I think I am in heaven.
Yes, I started organizing all of it on the table and trying to decide how to create an art area so that none of it just ends up back in boxes and in the back of shelves. Having moved some of the teaching materials out of the way, I think I have the perfect spot for everything, too. I got tired last night, and realized that the excitement I was feeling at 10pm was not the same at 1am, and I had better get some sleep. Work and all that, you know. So when I go home, and it is still daylight, I will see what progress I have made.
I want it to hold the same magic I felt last night, and that I can share with my kids when I have the art area in a usable space. That will happen rather quickly now that I am motivated. I will get back some of the preschool magic, and get to play. I will also open back up the world I have been missing.
I had an art area once. In a basement. In a house. I lived there for 10 years with those art supplies at hand and ready to share with my then very young children. I wasn't allowed to use them because they were messy, and I had responsibilities to keep the "borrowed" space clean in case someone else needed it. It wasn't mine, and it never occurred to me that it was never going to be until I left.
Until I wrote that just now, I didn't realize just how afraid that made me, the idea of having a space to create but it not belonging to me. How someone could take it away, judge it, belittle it, and so I hid it. It is like my writing, and my parents expectations. And how since then, for over a year in my own house, I have not created that space. Sigh.. revelations.
It just became a mission. Damn, I love when I work things out by writing them down! I will get to work on the art area, and that creative part. I will share it with my kids, and hopefully be messy and spontaneous in the process. Spring cleaning just got better! Clean a garage, a past, and some old expectations in one fell swoop. Who knew having my kids be gone would be so productive for me? Spring. Bring it! I will write more about what I create, what we create. I am excited. I can't wait to go home.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
How pillow fights are a God thing...
I am reading a wonderful work of fiction right now. It is about a relationship between girls who become women over the course of a decade and a half of their lives. Money vs. working class. Well-traveled vs. hometown. Divorce vs. parents who stay together, and the complications of each. It is about choices, freedom, sexuality, exploration and discovering who you are and how you fit into the world of morality and acceptance.
The central theme though revolves around religion. One is Jewish. One is Christian. There is a line in the story during one of the girls' conversations that sorta sets a tone for many more of their discussions. They are walking in a cemetery, drinking beer and dancing around with their teen-age summer boyfriends, and they come to the Hebrew portion of the cemetery, all walled off. The Jewish-faithed girl says "Hey, I could be buried here." And, as teenagers who are drunk walking through graveyards do, she lays down on one of the graves. Her friend, laying down next to her so they can look at stars together says "If there is only one God, what difference does it make to Him what part of the ground you are buried in?"
I haven't finished the book yet, so I can't tell you what the author wants us to figure out. What I do know is that it was heavy enough on my mind that I asked my kids about how they see religion in their world.
To give you some background, I am a former Catholic. My mother is still Catholic, and attends mass weekly. My father is an un-baptised Baptist who grew up with Jesus, but no church. I, at one point in my confusion-about-what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up phase, studied to take Catholic Order Novitiate vows. They would have worked for me, until a priest told me during one of my lessons that all women, and especially nuns, would be subservient to ALL men, not just priests, as all men are closer to God than women could or would ever be. Yeah, that was about the time I realized I was going to be okay with poverty and chastity, but would have a huge huge problem with the vow of obedience. I decided wearing a habit really wasn't going to work for me after all. I also decided that being Catholic was not gong to work for me, either.
I explored several "religions and churches" for a while, especially during college, always coming to the same conclusion: The religion wanted me to follow their rules without question and never, not once, ever have my own thoughts and communion with God without their guidance. I was not a good fit for any of them. I wanted to know the Whys, and the What-fors, and be able to seek what I wanted in my home, and through the sanctity of everything.
So come to today, and I am feeling more sure about my choices than ever. I had a five minute (age appropriate) conversation with my kids. What I had been teaching them about critical thinking, self understanding, and not needing a group to tell you what to do had been sinking it. They don't like going to the church their father insists they attend with his new wife. They call it baby church, like a bunch of people who don't really know what they want or what to believe, so they get together and light a Christ candle, and sing songs from Broadway musicals, and eat cheese slices and apple wedges in the common room. I have checked out their service and kid program, and it is all very fluffy. A little bit of you, a little bit of me, while claiming Christianity as it's umbrella. Wusses. My kids whine about going, but when made to, eat cheese and paint in the playroom. I think this is funny.
I bring this ideal to them: that God is not a person up in the sky moving the actions of humans in judgment like chess pieces. I tell them if you really want to know self-spirituality, question everything. Make the choices that work for you. Everything is sacred, and nothing is. Respect the uses of the world, not so that you can get into heaven, but so that living in THIS world is not hell. And that you leave more than what you took. And treat everyone the way you want to be treated. And that what you send out is what you get back. Three-fold in both blessings and in fear. And that there are many books that can help you, and friends that can speak to your heart. A little Buddha, a little Jesus, a little Mohammad, a little Dr. Seuss, a little Harry Potter, a little girl who sits on the other side of the classroom, a little cloud floating by, a little good sleep, a little 70's sitcoms, a little stream in the woods, a little cotton candy. It is all good, and can be all bad. It is how YOU make it out to be that makes all the difference. Oh yeah, and more than a little LOVE is probably the best thing anyone's got going on.
So from the a story plot-point asking about if there is only one God, who cares about burial plots, all the way to that my kids get love demonstrated for them everyday, I figure that was a pretty good way to have the morning before Spring Break start off. That, and the hysterical laughing fit we had when Haysten decided that God could be found in hitting his sister with a pillow. Yes, my life is good.
I will let you know what happens with the characters in the story. I hope the author figures it out for them, since I think I am doing pretty good in my world.
The central theme though revolves around religion. One is Jewish. One is Christian. There is a line in the story during one of the girls' conversations that sorta sets a tone for many more of their discussions. They are walking in a cemetery, drinking beer and dancing around with their teen-age summer boyfriends, and they come to the Hebrew portion of the cemetery, all walled off. The Jewish-faithed girl says "Hey, I could be buried here." And, as teenagers who are drunk walking through graveyards do, she lays down on one of the graves. Her friend, laying down next to her so they can look at stars together says "If there is only one God, what difference does it make to Him what part of the ground you are buried in?"
I haven't finished the book yet, so I can't tell you what the author wants us to figure out. What I do know is that it was heavy enough on my mind that I asked my kids about how they see religion in their world.
To give you some background, I am a former Catholic. My mother is still Catholic, and attends mass weekly. My father is an un-baptised Baptist who grew up with Jesus, but no church. I, at one point in my confusion-about-what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up phase, studied to take Catholic Order Novitiate vows. They would have worked for me, until a priest told me during one of my lessons that all women, and especially nuns, would be subservient to ALL men, not just priests, as all men are closer to God than women could or would ever be. Yeah, that was about the time I realized I was going to be okay with poverty and chastity, but would have a huge huge problem with the vow of obedience. I decided wearing a habit really wasn't going to work for me after all. I also decided that being Catholic was not gong to work for me, either.
I explored several "religions and churches" for a while, especially during college, always coming to the same conclusion: The religion wanted me to follow their rules without question and never, not once, ever have my own thoughts and communion with God without their guidance. I was not a good fit for any of them. I wanted to know the Whys, and the What-fors, and be able to seek what I wanted in my home, and through the sanctity of everything.
So come to today, and I am feeling more sure about my choices than ever. I had a five minute (age appropriate) conversation with my kids. What I had been teaching them about critical thinking, self understanding, and not needing a group to tell you what to do had been sinking it. They don't like going to the church their father insists they attend with his new wife. They call it baby church, like a bunch of people who don't really know what they want or what to believe, so they get together and light a Christ candle, and sing songs from Broadway musicals, and eat cheese slices and apple wedges in the common room. I have checked out their service and kid program, and it is all very fluffy. A little bit of you, a little bit of me, while claiming Christianity as it's umbrella. Wusses. My kids whine about going, but when made to, eat cheese and paint in the playroom. I think this is funny.
I bring this ideal to them: that God is not a person up in the sky moving the actions of humans in judgment like chess pieces. I tell them if you really want to know self-spirituality, question everything. Make the choices that work for you. Everything is sacred, and nothing is. Respect the uses of the world, not so that you can get into heaven, but so that living in THIS world is not hell. And that you leave more than what you took. And treat everyone the way you want to be treated. And that what you send out is what you get back. Three-fold in both blessings and in fear. And that there are many books that can help you, and friends that can speak to your heart. A little Buddha, a little Jesus, a little Mohammad, a little Dr. Seuss, a little Harry Potter, a little girl who sits on the other side of the classroom, a little cloud floating by, a little good sleep, a little 70's sitcoms, a little stream in the woods, a little cotton candy. It is all good, and can be all bad. It is how YOU make it out to be that makes all the difference. Oh yeah, and more than a little LOVE is probably the best thing anyone's got going on.
So from the a story plot-point asking about if there is only one God, who cares about burial plots, all the way to that my kids get love demonstrated for them everyday, I figure that was a pretty good way to have the morning before Spring Break start off. That, and the hysterical laughing fit we had when Haysten decided that God could be found in hitting his sister with a pillow. Yes, my life is good.
I will let you know what happens with the characters in the story. I hope the author figures it out for them, since I think I am doing pretty good in my world.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Rules are rules are rules....
I had my coffee pot confiscated last night by the coffee-pots-cannot-be-plugged-in-overnight police. It did not seem to matter that it had a build in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it was plugged into a surge protector, also with a built in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it is not a coffee pot, but a water heating pot with no actual burner or exposed element. Yeah, the rule is the rule is the rule, and I had it taken.
Yes, I got the pot back, with a sincere promise that I would remember to unplug the damn thing every night before walking out the door. I wonder if it is worth for a cup of tea that couple times a week I need it. This however got me thinking about rules, and where they come from. And I suppose, how to change them.
I used to work for TSA. Yep, the people who make you miserable at the airport by insisting that your shoes and recently purchased bottle of water constitute a national security risk. I know how to use a hand wand, search a bag full of golf clubs, and run an x-ray machine. I also know that 3oz of liquid explosives will disable an airplane, and it might make it back to solid ground. But 4oz of the same stuff will blow a hole the size of a ping pong table in the side of the economy section and the plane will hit the ground without much chance of survivors. Even worse if it happened as it was simultaneously flying into the Golden Gate Bridge.
Having had this rule drilled into me, I had a small understanding of why we (I mean me, and my coworkers with the sucky airport security job) had to take away your diet coke (12 oz), your bottle of wine (750ml), your Lush lotion (10oz) and your hairspray (14.5oz). What I didn't like was there was no alternate choice. No redeeming value in pumped breast milk (4-6oz), coffee fresh from the vending machine on the outside of security (8oz), hand sanitizer (5oz) or a sippy cup of grape juice for a cranky two-year-old (less than an ounce because the rest was just spilled on your uniform or x-ray machine). I quit that job. Besides the 4am start time, I could not wrap my brain all the way around that compliance.
My mother had a rule about finishing everything on your plate. From a woman who lived through a depression and a war, this does not seem that unreasonable. Starving children and the Baby Jesus who will suffer if I don't eat my peas. The weirdness of the rule came from when you wanted more of something. Seconds of meatloaf for instance. In my mom's world, seconds of one thing meant seconds of everything. Something about a balanced plate that I never understood, and she filled your plate all over again with the desired meatloaf slice, the tolerable mashed potatoes, and the hated peas, in possibly smaller portions than the original go around, but not by much. A whole second meal was to be finished to the crumbs, again, to please the Lord. Rules are rules are rules. I am a fat adult. Duh. I quit that rule, and my kids never have to clean their plates.
My children create rules all the time. We can only eat See's candy on Tuesdays if having pizza. Milk, if it is fat-free, must be consumed through a swirly straw. Bed time is 8 o'clock, unless there is a Lego creation or picture or great book to finish, then bedtime is 8:15. You must wear matching socks, unless you are giving your extras to your brother. Honking horns in tunnels is perfectly acceptable and required, especially if no emergency requiring a horn exists. Stuffed animals are to be given confusing names (a tiger named Lion, a dog named Toast, and a cat named Tow Truck) and shoes that are too small must live in the bottom of the closet forever! I like these rules. The rules turn into routines. The routines turn into traditions. Traditions that make you happy and laugh, and that you want to continue are totally worth following.
But back to my original reason for thinking about rules to begin with, the coffee pot and redeeming value in having rules and complying. It has brought me somewhere I was not expecting. That is that there are no rules written in stone. Everything changes. I got my coffee pot back, I don't have to tell people that mascara makes them a terrorist, and I can say that I am fat and own it. I also get to explain and listen to things with my kids that work and don't work. The rule when they were little that said they had to hold hands with an adult has changed to being able to be within visual surveillance. I am okay with that. There was redeeming value in the hand-holding rule when they were 3, and it had to be let go now that they are 8 and 10.
So I have also learned to let go of my personal rules, be kinder to myself in my observation and judgement. I have also set up some new ones that are based in wanting new traditions. I like that, too. What I really want though, is someone to come unplug my coffee pot for me every night, because I know I will forget, and what will be the point of the rule then? Maybe I will find a way to change the rule. Maybe I will comply. Maybe I will move the coffee pot so it is not in my office any more. Choices. It makes all the difference.
Yes, I got the pot back, with a sincere promise that I would remember to unplug the damn thing every night before walking out the door. I wonder if it is worth for a cup of tea that couple times a week I need it. This however got me thinking about rules, and where they come from. And I suppose, how to change them.
I used to work for TSA. Yep, the people who make you miserable at the airport by insisting that your shoes and recently purchased bottle of water constitute a national security risk. I know how to use a hand wand, search a bag full of golf clubs, and run an x-ray machine. I also know that 3oz of liquid explosives will disable an airplane, and it might make it back to solid ground. But 4oz of the same stuff will blow a hole the size of a ping pong table in the side of the economy section and the plane will hit the ground without much chance of survivors. Even worse if it happened as it was simultaneously flying into the Golden Gate Bridge.
Having had this rule drilled into me, I had a small understanding of why we (I mean me, and my coworkers with the sucky airport security job) had to take away your diet coke (12 oz), your bottle of wine (750ml), your Lush lotion (10oz) and your hairspray (14.5oz). What I didn't like was there was no alternate choice. No redeeming value in pumped breast milk (4-6oz), coffee fresh from the vending machine on the outside of security (8oz), hand sanitizer (5oz) or a sippy cup of grape juice for a cranky two-year-old (less than an ounce because the rest was just spilled on your uniform or x-ray machine). I quit that job. Besides the 4am start time, I could not wrap my brain all the way around that compliance.
My mother had a rule about finishing everything on your plate. From a woman who lived through a depression and a war, this does not seem that unreasonable. Starving children and the Baby Jesus who will suffer if I don't eat my peas. The weirdness of the rule came from when you wanted more of something. Seconds of meatloaf for instance. In my mom's world, seconds of one thing meant seconds of everything. Something about a balanced plate that I never understood, and she filled your plate all over again with the desired meatloaf slice, the tolerable mashed potatoes, and the hated peas, in possibly smaller portions than the original go around, but not by much. A whole second meal was to be finished to the crumbs, again, to please the Lord. Rules are rules are rules. I am a fat adult. Duh. I quit that rule, and my kids never have to clean their plates.
My children create rules all the time. We can only eat See's candy on Tuesdays if having pizza. Milk, if it is fat-free, must be consumed through a swirly straw. Bed time is 8 o'clock, unless there is a Lego creation or picture or great book to finish, then bedtime is 8:15. You must wear matching socks, unless you are giving your extras to your brother. Honking horns in tunnels is perfectly acceptable and required, especially if no emergency requiring a horn exists. Stuffed animals are to be given confusing names (a tiger named Lion, a dog named Toast, and a cat named Tow Truck) and shoes that are too small must live in the bottom of the closet forever! I like these rules. The rules turn into routines. The routines turn into traditions. Traditions that make you happy and laugh, and that you want to continue are totally worth following.
But back to my original reason for thinking about rules to begin with, the coffee pot and redeeming value in having rules and complying. It has brought me somewhere I was not expecting. That is that there are no rules written in stone. Everything changes. I got my coffee pot back, I don't have to tell people that mascara makes them a terrorist, and I can say that I am fat and own it. I also get to explain and listen to things with my kids that work and don't work. The rule when they were little that said they had to hold hands with an adult has changed to being able to be within visual surveillance. I am okay with that. There was redeeming value in the hand-holding rule when they were 3, and it had to be let go now that they are 8 and 10.
So I have also learned to let go of my personal rules, be kinder to myself in my observation and judgement. I have also set up some new ones that are based in wanting new traditions. I like that, too. What I really want though, is someone to come unplug my coffee pot for me every night, because I know I will forget, and what will be the point of the rule then? Maybe I will find a way to change the rule. Maybe I will comply. Maybe I will move the coffee pot so it is not in my office any more. Choices. It makes all the difference.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Viral
I am going to rant today. It is my blog, and I can, so please stop reading now if you don't want to hear my point of view. I forgive you. Carry on.
I have seen several videos and blogs go viral this week. People passing them around like some kind of new online drug, and feeling quite indignant, or conversely, motivated, to let people know they are upset or in support of something or other.
Rush Limbaugh is a tool. He is a radio personality shock-jock. He has supporters who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. There are those who really think his message is clear and to the point and needs to be the way everyone sees it. Others think he is a bigot and a racist, and now, apparently, hates women, birth-control, and everything related to any person who speaks their mind, himself excluded of course. And the fact that this is shocking to people is all the more reason to do it, duh. I can understand. It is upsetting to hear demeaning words. It is a total mind-fuck to think they are true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?
Joseph Kony is a tool. He is the leader of a hatred filled rebellion group in Uganda called the LRA. This group, on a regular basis, kills adults, rapes little girls, and forcibly recruits little boys to serve in their army. The little boys are either beat or drugged into compliance. Some of the people who follow him see him as the Messiah. Others think he is Satan incarnate. He has people who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. The children and people of Uganda are fearful. It is upsetting to see the video of the conditions in which the citizens live. It is a total mind-fuck to think it is true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?
Here is the rant part of the post. While I hate the words that Rush Limbaugh is spouting, I offer that he is allowed to say what ever the hell he feels like saying. We give him the power to shock us by ignoring that many people feel the same as he does. They have for years. Women have been told over and over that their place is behind men. We have accepted lower pay for equal work. We have accepted crappy child care so we could. We have let a right wing portion of the bible belt tell us that an unwanted pregnancy for any reason means that you are to be condemned. Yes, condemned, either to live the life of parenting outside of a desired time frame, or to be labeled as a murderer. We have let clergy molest our children and still ask them for spiritual guidance. We have let out elderly parents send their money to the Home Shopping Network and scam artists and mega-churches. We let drug dealers on our streets and in our schools. Who the hell let Rush Limbaugh have a voice? Oh yeah, that would be us.
I hate the actions of Joseph Kony, but I offer that he is allowed to believe whatever the hell he feels like believing. We gave him the power to have us believe that he is god. We have for years. We accepted that not only Uganda, but many parts of Africa have resources we desire, and we let whomever can deliver them to us be in charge. It was blood diamonds in Sierra-Leone and Zimbabwe. It is gold in the southern parts. It is petroleum in Nigeria and, as we all know, Libya. Women in Senegal are dying during child birth because it is not uncommon for girls to get pregnant at age 13 with "husbands" who are in their 30s. They are trafficked there because Senegal is at least stable enough that a life of enforced sexual domination is better than starvation in another African country. So who the hell let Joseph Kony have a voice? Oh yeah, that again , would be us.
So, for the unaware, let's count all the things going on in the world that we pay little or no attention to. We put pretty rings and earrings on from diamonds mined by children in Africa. We drink coffee harvested by children in Colombia. We wear clothes sewn by children in China. There are people starving, women and children being trafficked, men made into killing machines, elderly eating cat food, four year olds being given drugs, dogs being beaten and starved, pink slime being fed to school-lunch recipients, money being laundered, executives getting rich, homeless people with signs asking for beer, skinny models being held as the beauty standard, marriage equality being ignored, teenagers committing suicide over being mercilessly bullied, and snakes being held up while people calling themselves Christian talk in tongues and stockpile weapons. I can't get my ex-husband to show up for co-parent counseling, and I have no money most months to pay my water bill. Which one of the world's problems would you like me to solve first by hitting the "like" button on Facebook?
I want to have the world be better. I would like ass-hats like Rush Limbaugh to stop spouting what he is saying. I would like it more if the people who are listening would just stop giving him the power. I believe in people. I know that most people know the difference between what is right and what is easy, and given the actual choice, will pick what is right. The same goes for Joseph Kony. I would like to hope the video means an end to his reign. I would like it more if no-one was there to pick up his banner, and that from the beginning of the quest for things and power, people will pick what is right the first time. I have no guns to shoot these men in the head. I don't think I have the stomach for taking their lives either. Do you? It is complicated, isn't it?
Instead I will do the best I can do today. I will teach my children and love them and hold them close. I will be there as they fall, and are confused, and succeed, and love, and hate, and make mistakes. I will side with them in things that are right, because giving them hope is all I have. Maybe they will be the ones with the ideas that make real change. Maybe I can start, in small steps, by not buying a diamond and by remembering to look at labels. I can write letters and seek justice as I always have, and leave the violence to those that haven't learned from history yet. Baby steps with education. Yep that is all I can do today. What can you do?
I have seen several videos and blogs go viral this week. People passing them around like some kind of new online drug, and feeling quite indignant, or conversely, motivated, to let people know they are upset or in support of something or other.
Rush Limbaugh is a tool. He is a radio personality shock-jock. He has supporters who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. There are those who really think his message is clear and to the point and needs to be the way everyone sees it. Others think he is a bigot and a racist, and now, apparently, hates women, birth-control, and everything related to any person who speaks their mind, himself excluded of course. And the fact that this is shocking to people is all the more reason to do it, duh. I can understand. It is upsetting to hear demeaning words. It is a total mind-fuck to think they are true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?
Joseph Kony is a tool. He is the leader of a hatred filled rebellion group in Uganda called the LRA. This group, on a regular basis, kills adults, rapes little girls, and forcibly recruits little boys to serve in their army. The little boys are either beat or drugged into compliance. Some of the people who follow him see him as the Messiah. Others think he is Satan incarnate. He has people who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. The children and people of Uganda are fearful. It is upsetting to see the video of the conditions in which the citizens live. It is a total mind-fuck to think it is true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?
Here is the rant part of the post. While I hate the words that Rush Limbaugh is spouting, I offer that he is allowed to say what ever the hell he feels like saying. We give him the power to shock us by ignoring that many people feel the same as he does. They have for years. Women have been told over and over that their place is behind men. We have accepted lower pay for equal work. We have accepted crappy child care so we could. We have let a right wing portion of the bible belt tell us that an unwanted pregnancy for any reason means that you are to be condemned. Yes, condemned, either to live the life of parenting outside of a desired time frame, or to be labeled as a murderer. We have let clergy molest our children and still ask them for spiritual guidance. We have let out elderly parents send their money to the Home Shopping Network and scam artists and mega-churches. We let drug dealers on our streets and in our schools. Who the hell let Rush Limbaugh have a voice? Oh yeah, that would be us.
I hate the actions of Joseph Kony, but I offer that he is allowed to believe whatever the hell he feels like believing. We gave him the power to have us believe that he is god. We have for years. We accepted that not only Uganda, but many parts of Africa have resources we desire, and we let whomever can deliver them to us be in charge. It was blood diamonds in Sierra-Leone and Zimbabwe. It is gold in the southern parts. It is petroleum in Nigeria and, as we all know, Libya. Women in Senegal are dying during child birth because it is not uncommon for girls to get pregnant at age 13 with "husbands" who are in their 30s. They are trafficked there because Senegal is at least stable enough that a life of enforced sexual domination is better than starvation in another African country. So who the hell let Joseph Kony have a voice? Oh yeah, that again , would be us.
So, for the unaware, let's count all the things going on in the world that we pay little or no attention to. We put pretty rings and earrings on from diamonds mined by children in Africa. We drink coffee harvested by children in Colombia. We wear clothes sewn by children in China. There are people starving, women and children being trafficked, men made into killing machines, elderly eating cat food, four year olds being given drugs, dogs being beaten and starved, pink slime being fed to school-lunch recipients, money being laundered, executives getting rich, homeless people with signs asking for beer, skinny models being held as the beauty standard, marriage equality being ignored, teenagers committing suicide over being mercilessly bullied, and snakes being held up while people calling themselves Christian talk in tongues and stockpile weapons. I can't get my ex-husband to show up for co-parent counseling, and I have no money most months to pay my water bill. Which one of the world's problems would you like me to solve first by hitting the "like" button on Facebook?
I want to have the world be better. I would like ass-hats like Rush Limbaugh to stop spouting what he is saying. I would like it more if the people who are listening would just stop giving him the power. I believe in people. I know that most people know the difference between what is right and what is easy, and given the actual choice, will pick what is right. The same goes for Joseph Kony. I would like to hope the video means an end to his reign. I would like it more if no-one was there to pick up his banner, and that from the beginning of the quest for things and power, people will pick what is right the first time. I have no guns to shoot these men in the head. I don't think I have the stomach for taking their lives either. Do you? It is complicated, isn't it?
Instead I will do the best I can do today. I will teach my children and love them and hold them close. I will be there as they fall, and are confused, and succeed, and love, and hate, and make mistakes. I will side with them in things that are right, because giving them hope is all I have. Maybe they will be the ones with the ideas that make real change. Maybe I can start, in small steps, by not buying a diamond and by remembering to look at labels. I can write letters and seek justice as I always have, and leave the violence to those that haven't learned from history yet. Baby steps with education. Yep that is all I can do today. What can you do?
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Dreaming in color.
I have been having the strangest dreams the last few days. Before you ask: No, I am not pregnant. No, I have not been drunk when I fell asleep. No, I have not been eating spicy Mexican, Korean, or Russian food. No, I am not reading horror stories or watching scary movies until all hours. No, I have no idea why these are here right now, I am sure it is just a "thing".
The worst and best parts about the dreams are that while I am in them, I know that I am in them, and can't stop them anyway. It is not a Dreamscape-Inception-What Dreams May Come kinda feeling either. These feel real right up until something weird (as always happens in dreams) happens, and then I know, long before waking up, that I am in a dream, and I just need to ride it out.
I got to pick out fresh fruit and vegetables at the farmer's market with my children's father. He talked me into buying (and I assume agreeing to having them cooked) brussel sprouts. I hate brussel sprouts. This is not a knock to brussel sprout fans, you can eat them to your heart's content. It was just that not only would I never have purchased them or cooked them for any reason, the fact that it was for my children's father was the first indication that this was a dream. I never, not once in the entire time we were together, did I ever cook the nasty mini green cabbagey things. Not even when he asked. I don't like them THAT much. I suppose I could have been a dutiful wife about it, and just sucked up my disgust, but it was a small line, in a desert full of sandy lines, that I would not cross. The giving in in the dream seemed small in my foggy bedhead remembrance, like "So what, he could buy brussel sprouts if he wants them, what's it to me?" The dream ended when we got into an argument about the size of zucchini I was fondling. By the time this vegetable was in my hands, I already knew it was a dream, and was actually controlling it a bit, enjoying that I could piss him off with such a small amount of innuendo. It felt good.
I also got offered a job that would have allowed me to work in a giant office filled with cushions and ergonomic chairs and not a bit of technology in site. I would be able to wear jeans to work every day, and massage therapists would come and rub the soles of my always barefoot feet. The floors were heated, and we left our shoes at the door. It would have been divine. All I needed to have this be my new permanent job, what ever it was that I would be doing in the spa like luxury, was get my first ex husband to deliver a roll of postage stamps to the king of France by COB on Thursday. Yeah, that was when the I was sure this was a dream. They handed my ex the tickets, the directions, the stamps, and a bag full of money for whatever expenses he would need. I knew, even in the dream, that this was an unrealistic expectation for him. He would not be able to do it. I kissed him in the dream, sort of a good bye kiss, and then, still in control of the dream, put my shoes on and walked out the door. I remember smiling.
The last clear dream I can remember had my kids and I sliding over and over and over again in an endless baseball field full of second bases. We were laughing and having the best time. It started to rain (a given for baseball season), and kept on playing. Haysten scraped his knee, and when he let me look at it without fussing, I knew it was a dream. Instead of cleaning the wound, I looked to the sky and wished for the rain to become marshmallow fluff, which it promptly did, and we just started sliding again. Mariah was our voice of reason. She took our clothes to the laundromat, conveniently located in the middle of the field, pointing out that the rain would come back eventually and we could all take showers then. It did not seem to matter that we were naked, with spectators.
I am hoping for a vivid dream tonight, too. I like them. They all seemed happy, if not thought-provokingly weird. I figure the messages are clear: that my children's father is controlling, but I can give him little victories; that my ex is unreliable but that I am fine without him; and that my kids and I are transparent to the world in our happiness, and having a great time doing it. I like these messages. They seem to validate for me what I already know about myself. But, if I have a dream about chocolate pudding and Pierce Brosnan, I won't complain about that either.
The worst and best parts about the dreams are that while I am in them, I know that I am in them, and can't stop them anyway. It is not a Dreamscape-Inception-What Dreams May Come kinda feeling either. These feel real right up until something weird (as always happens in dreams) happens, and then I know, long before waking up, that I am in a dream, and I just need to ride it out.
I got to pick out fresh fruit and vegetables at the farmer's market with my children's father. He talked me into buying (and I assume agreeing to having them cooked) brussel sprouts. I hate brussel sprouts. This is not a knock to brussel sprout fans, you can eat them to your heart's content. It was just that not only would I never have purchased them or cooked them for any reason, the fact that it was for my children's father was the first indication that this was a dream. I never, not once in the entire time we were together, did I ever cook the nasty mini green cabbagey things. Not even when he asked. I don't like them THAT much. I suppose I could have been a dutiful wife about it, and just sucked up my disgust, but it was a small line, in a desert full of sandy lines, that I would not cross. The giving in in the dream seemed small in my foggy bedhead remembrance, like "So what, he could buy brussel sprouts if he wants them, what's it to me?" The dream ended when we got into an argument about the size of zucchini I was fondling. By the time this vegetable was in my hands, I already knew it was a dream, and was actually controlling it a bit, enjoying that I could piss him off with such a small amount of innuendo. It felt good.
I also got offered a job that would have allowed me to work in a giant office filled with cushions and ergonomic chairs and not a bit of technology in site. I would be able to wear jeans to work every day, and massage therapists would come and rub the soles of my always barefoot feet. The floors were heated, and we left our shoes at the door. It would have been divine. All I needed to have this be my new permanent job, what ever it was that I would be doing in the spa like luxury, was get my first ex husband to deliver a roll of postage stamps to the king of France by COB on Thursday. Yeah, that was when the I was sure this was a dream. They handed my ex the tickets, the directions, the stamps, and a bag full of money for whatever expenses he would need. I knew, even in the dream, that this was an unrealistic expectation for him. He would not be able to do it. I kissed him in the dream, sort of a good bye kiss, and then, still in control of the dream, put my shoes on and walked out the door. I remember smiling.
The last clear dream I can remember had my kids and I sliding over and over and over again in an endless baseball field full of second bases. We were laughing and having the best time. It started to rain (a given for baseball season), and kept on playing. Haysten scraped his knee, and when he let me look at it without fussing, I knew it was a dream. Instead of cleaning the wound, I looked to the sky and wished for the rain to become marshmallow fluff, which it promptly did, and we just started sliding again. Mariah was our voice of reason. She took our clothes to the laundromat, conveniently located in the middle of the field, pointing out that the rain would come back eventually and we could all take showers then. It did not seem to matter that we were naked, with spectators.
I am hoping for a vivid dream tonight, too. I like them. They all seemed happy, if not thought-provokingly weird. I figure the messages are clear: that my children's father is controlling, but I can give him little victories; that my ex is unreliable but that I am fine without him; and that my kids and I are transparent to the world in our happiness, and having a great time doing it. I like these messages. They seem to validate for me what I already know about myself. But, if I have a dream about chocolate pudding and Pierce Brosnan, I won't complain about that either.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)