This Is a Life (Son Lux, David Byrne)

Thursday was very productive (I felt I was turning a corner), and today somewhat (back in Molasses Swamp).  My friend Michele sent me a beautiful dragonfly journal a few weeks ago, and I decided yesterday that, rather than recording an endless To Do List (as I've done for the last month), I would use it to spotlight my Ta-Da! accomplishments.  I filled up an entire page for Thursday; today... three items.

I did finish the Caring Community Fall 2023 newsletter, and sent it out for proofreading/review.  Considering the fact it's four weeks late (no pressure from anyone at all), I'm still proud of myself for focusing enough to move it forward.

I had every intention of making it to a Reiki Circle this evening, but I just couldn't motivate enough to leave the house.  Maybe next Friday?... 🤷

It's not even 10 p.m. and I am so tired, and very sad.  Going to bed... 😢

SONG:  This Is a Life by Son Lux, David Byrne)

BOOK:  Life After Loss: Contemporary Grief Counseling and Therapy by Jackson Rainer

POEM(S):  Prayer to Be Changed by James Crews

I ask for just the slightest shift

in my thinking, the kindest sifting

of my busy mind so only wonder

and peace are left behind. So that

as I walk in sleet on this spring morning

I can see even these muddy ruts

made by careless trucks on the forest trail

as harbors of miracle, knowing they will

fill with enough snowmelt and rain

for tadpoles to swim in come summer,

until that sunlit instant when they feel

the flexing of legs in the water beneath them,

and leap out onto the ground, their bodies

having decided, by pure instinct alone,

to be soft and alive in this world.

The Paradox by Sarah Kay

When I am inside writing,

all I can think about is how I should be outside living.

When I am outside living,

all I can do is notice all there is to write about.

When I read about love, I think I should be out loving.

When I love, I think I need to read more.

I am stumbling in pursuit of grace,

I hunt patience with a vengeance.

On the mornings when my brother’s tired muscles

held to the pillow, my father used to tell him,

For every moment you aren’t playing basketball,

someone else is on the court practicing.

I spend most of my time wondering

if I should be somewhere else.

So I have learned to shape the words thank you

with my first breath each morning, my last breath every night.

When the last breath comes, at least I will know I was thankful

for all the places I was so sure I was not supposed to be.

All those places I made it to,

all the loves I held, all the words I wrote.

And even if it is just for one moment,

I will be exactly where I am supposed to be.

QUOTE(S):  “I had my own notion of grief.  I thought it was the sad time that followed the death of someone you love.  And you had to push through it to get to the other side.  But I'm learning there is no other side.  There is no pushing through.  But rather, there is absorption.  Adiustment.  Acceptance.  And grief is not something you complete, but rather, you endure.  Grief is not a task to finish and move on, but an element of yourself, an alteration of your being.  A new way of seeing.  A new definition of self.” ~ Gwen Flowers  

“The urge to transform one's appearance, to dance outdoors, to mock the powerful and embrace perfect strangers is not easy to suppress.” ~ Barbara Ehrenreich

Brave New Christmas (John William Davis)

From the most amazing Chris Chandler...

T.H.E. .M.U.S.E.

A.N.D. .W.H.I.R.L.E.D

.R.E.T.O.R.T.

Vol IX issue iii

December 1, 2007

Atlanta, GA

In DC a few days ago George Bush met with Al Gore. I think it was George's way of fighting global warming. After the 2000 election, I always figured hell would freeze over before that happened. But no. Hell is not freezing over. I know. I have been watching the History Channel's new series called Ice Road Truckers. Many wondered why the show was picked up by The History Channel but if you think about it, with the melting polar ice caps the whole concept is soon to be well. . . History. In fact they are already in production for next year's season to be called The North Pole Midshipmen.

Henry Hudson and Stan Rogers would be proud. We have found the North West Passage. The big disappointment though is Santa has been forced to relocate his shop. It was a move that did not surprise many toy manufactures. It had been projected for years.

It seems the global warming problem coupled with the rising cost of reindeer feed and new demands made by the Elves have caused the economic viability of The North Pole facilities to become obsolete. Rising demand by American children insisting higher and higher quantities of T.M.X. Elmo eXtra Special Edition, Pleno the Dinosaur, and Fisher Price Lil Super Star Sing Along Karaoke Machine had sent the Elves into triple overtime. Santa simply had to find someone of a similar height to keep up with demand.

The Choice was obvious: Chinese Children. It seems the sweat shops in China are well equipped to keep up with demand and Chinese Children will work for less than those pudgy cookie eating elves.

So this year the sleigh has been replaced with a rickshaw pulled by a team of Chinese flying water buffalo. Donder, Blitzen and the gang have found work in this season's long awaited sequel "Crouching Tiger, Flying Reindeer."

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!" Has now been replaced with "On Kung Pao, and Lo mein! Moo shu! And Wanton!" Of course we can't forget "General Tso the Red nosed Gnu."

Hardest hit by all of this are the Elves that are now seeing 80 percent unemployment - especially after an embarrassing incident in a celebrity dance competition. Besides Santa, the only regular hirer of Elves is the Keebler company and come-on, how many Pecan Sandies and Danish Wedding Cookies can ya stand?

Travelocity considered a few commercial spots with the "Roaming Gnome" but the "Itinerant Elves" just didn't have the same ring. Good fortune (if you want to call it that) has only come to a few of Santa's rebel Elves who had been living on the wrong side of the Pole. Sources say over a dozen were paid well by Howard Stern for appearing in an episode on his TV show exploring the subtleties of Midget Porn.

Frosty the Snowman seems to have survived for now and is living in the walk in freezer at a This Can't Be Yogurt just outside Dubuque, IA. There was a brief fear he was going to change his name to Aquafina the Water boy. But Lydia James, a 37 year old Barista - still living with her parents, stepped up and put her job on the line saying she could not stand the thought of his lump of coal eyeballs sinking to the bottom of a water cooler somewhere with his carrot nose and corn cob pipe floating on top.

Perhaps the biggest concern will be for Mrs. Claus who now finds herself at the age of one hundred and eight forced to sew Barbie sized jackets for the ever popular "Singing Hannah Montana Doll." But what is she complaining about? The current rate for sewing one of those jackets is 1 cent per dozen. (really)

But lets not talk about the losers. The winners are of course the children. And that is what Christmas is all about. With Santa's exodus from the North Pole he no longer needs to worry about restrictions he once endured. Toys will be brighter and more beautiful than ever this Christmas season with new higher tech lead paints once restricted in the North Pole facilities.

How else can Santa keep those Wal-Mart shelve stocked with X-Box, Furreal Friend's Remote control Ponies, and for the teenage Girl the Text Msg electronic Diary.

D.D. ?4U y 5555 over bf? Need 2 poahf & get afc 3 bbt

Santa and his elves just could not compete. They have those kids working 19 hours a day. They can sleep on the floor next to their assembly line post. Elves wouldn't stand for that. (Although there have been vicious rumors circulating about the Keebler Company's work schedule)

Those kids can work for a cup of rice a week. Every Elf needs the occasional Nutter Butter. Those Chinese kids don't need no stinkin' Nutter Butter. Those shelves have to be stocked. Have to. It's Christmas. And if we have to whip the kids in China to make sure American kids have a good Christmas than By-God we will. Those Chinks aren't Christian and for that matter neither are the Elves. They are Pagan. They'll burn in hell anyway. So what difference does it make?! It's Christmas! What would Wal-Mart be with out well stocked shelves? There would be no Christmas!

And besides this is not Santa's first move. His exile into isolation at the North Pole came when he was forced (again by the Americans) to move from his native Russia during the McCarthy era. This won't even be Santa's first time living in a communist country. Despite Washington Irving and The Saturday Evening Post's best efforts, he in fact remained in Russia well past the Boshvic Revolution and even through his courtship with Coca Cola in the 1930's. Yes, that benevolent bearded pipe smoking man you see wistfully depicted in Coke Ads from the 30s was in fact a Commie.

There is a radical splinter group of Santa die hard do gooders (mostly housed in the left wing of the Catholic Church) who maintain Santa's Move, -- what with his big heart and stalwart reputation -- believe his secret agenda is to transform the sweatshop environment.

However, the larger bodies with in most churches have joined the crusade this Christmas. It seems that those Chinese children have a monopoly on the manufacture of Crucifixes and other religious items including the New Testament itself. (really)

First it was all the American Flags, now the bible?

Some Protestant churches have joined in (at least in spirit) and are replacing actors in their Christmas Living Manger pageants with workers from Guatemala found hanging outside the home Depot. Yes, this year the three wise men are actually named Rafael, Ricco and Carlos. The good news is. . . the baby Jesus? His name really is Jesus. . . (Hey Zeus) . . . the two year old son of Mary and Juan of Corpus Christi, Texas.

As for the Crucifixes, even ones clearly marked "made in Italy" (leaving one to presume by tranquil monks) were in fact made in China in Sweatshops under deplorable conditions. (really)

So the next time you see a lawn lit with a plastic baby Jesus just ask, "Where was Jesus Made?"

SONG: Brave New Christmas by John William Davis (lyrics not available but review can be found here)...

BOOK: Christmas at The New Yorker: Stories, Poems, Humor, and Art by New Yorker (Author), John Updike (Foreword)

POEM: A Politically Correct Christmas Story by Amberlee Spurling

'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...

How to live in a world that's politically correct?

His workers no longer would answer to 'Elves'.

'Vertically Challenged' they were calling themselves.

And labour conditions at the North Pole

were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.

Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,

Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.

And equal employment had made it quite clear

That Santa had better not use just reindeer.

So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid

Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!

The runners had been removed from his sleigh;

The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.

And people had started to call for the cops

When they heard sled noises on their rooftops.

Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.

His fur trimmed red suit was called 'Unenlightened.'

And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,

Rudolf was suing over unauthorised use of his nose

And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,

Demanding millions in over-due compensation.

So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,

Who suddenly said she'd enough of this life,

Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,

Demanding from now on her title was Ms.

And as for the gifts, why, he'd never had a notion

That making a choice could cause so much commotion.

Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,

Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.

Nothing that might be construed to pollute.

Nothing to aim, Nothing to shoot.

Nothing that clamoured or made lots of noise.

Nothing for just girls, or just for the boys.

Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.

Nothing that's warlike or non-pacifistic.

No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.

Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.

And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,

Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.

For they raised the hackles of those psychological

Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.

No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;

Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.

Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;

And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.

So Santa just stood there, dishevelled, perplexed;

He just could not figure out what to do next.

He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,

But you've got to be careful with that word today.

His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;

Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.

Something special was needed, a gift that he might

Give to all without angering the left or the right.

A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,

Each group of people, every religion;

Every ethnicity, every hue,

Everyone, everywhere...even you.

So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...

May you and your loved ones, enjoy peace on Earth.

QUOTE: "I was raised the old-fashioned way, with a stern set of moral principles: Never lie, cheat, steal or knowingly spread a venereal disease. Never speed up to hit a pedestrian or, or course, stop to kick a pedestrian who has already been hit. From which it followed, of course, that one would never ever -- on pain of deletion from dozens of Christmas card lists across the country -- vote Republican." ~ Barbara Ehrenreich

Hurricane (Kris Delmhorst)

From Wikipedia: "The 2007 Atlantic hurricane season officially started June 1, 2007 and will last until November 30, 2007. Hurricane experts predict above-average activity (17 named storms, 9 hurricanes, 5 of Category 3 or higher). The forecast indicates a 74% chance of at least one major hurricane striking the U.S. mainland, which includes a 50% chance of at least one major hurricane strike on the East Coast of the United States including the Florida peninsula and a 49% chance of at least one major hurricane strike on the Gulf Coast of the United States from the Florida Panhandle westward."

We were very lucky last year but, considering the frequency and intensity of 2004 and 2005, it was nice to have a bit of a break - we moved here in March 1992, 4 months before Hurricane Andrew made landfall and we've certainly learned our lesson over the years regarding early preparation... which reminds me that I need to go to the grocery store this weekend and stock up on storm supplies (canned foods, Pop-Tarts, bottled water... and E-Z-CheeZe, a family tradition... :-)

I wrote the poem below on 9/5/04, in anticipation of Hurricane Frances - the storm, downgraded from a Category 4 to a Category 2, made landfall on the Atlantic coast of Florida, near Stuart, on September 5, 2004 and moved across the state dropping up to 13 inches of rain. Frances made a second Florida landfall, as a tropical storm, at St. Marks on the Panhandle on September 8 - more than 2.8 million people were evacuated, damages were estimated at $9 billion and the storm killed at least 38 people.

SONG: Hurricane by Kris Delmhorst

BOOK: Florida's Hurricane History by Jay Barnes and Steve Lyons

POEM: Prayer to St. Margarita (Be Careful What You Wish For)
She began as a twinkle in my mother’s eye
As we floated in the pool one South Florida summer day
“What this backyard needs is a statue”
And we went on a quest

We bought this house from a former Chicagoan
He called the yard his Wrigley Field
Because of the high ficus hedges
Surrounding the property on three sides

Being a literary rather than a sports enthusiast,
I dubbed it my Alice in Wonderland backyard
I could envision a door hidden by the foliage
Leading to faraway lands and magical adventures

“What this backyard needs is a statue”
And the quest began
A mermaid? A fountain? A dolphin?
A goddess… not too big, not too little, just right

We loaded her into the back of the minivan
And coerced our men to position her… a little to the center, a little to the left, just right
Nestled amidst an island of greenery
She surveyed her new kingdom from a poolside vantage point

Her eyes were comforting yet mischievous
The pitcher in her left hand dispensing imaginary well water or alcoholic concoctions
So we hot-glue-gunned a plastic margarita glass to her right fist
And the goddess was canonized

She’s witnessed a decade of baby showers and bums-by-the-pool days
She’s overheard the confessions of sleepovers and midnight Jacuzzi soaks
She’s sworn to silence of teenage birthday parties and adult couplings
Always a knowing smile, always sealed lips, never a judgment

A heavy rainstorm once upset her equilibrium
The next day found her lower half reclined on the concrete
And her upper half immersed in six feet of water
Smashing her right arm into a useless appendage

Fearing she’d never live to see another tequila sunrise
We hoisted her from the depths and began the reconstruction
Resurrecting her like the phoenix or a time-worn quarrel
Re-igniting the dispassionate fire for a hopeful future

Patroness of blender drinks and village women,
falling-star viewings and moonlight skinnydips
We balance the storms on our horizons with the calm of an eye
Our vision is clouded by history, yet clear with love

St. Margarita, deliver us from normal and lead us not into stagnation…

QUOTE: "Some of us still get all weepy when we think about the Gaia Hypothesis, the idea that earth is a big furry goddess-creature who resembles everybody's mom in that she knows what's best for us. But if you look at the historical record—Krakatoa, Mt. Vesuvius, Hurricane Charley, poison ivy, and so forth down the ages—you have to ask yourself: Whose side is she on, anyway?" ~ Barbara Ehrenreich