Sassyangelac
A Belly Full
This particular Ugly Doll was adopted by the kiddo of a coworker. This particular kiddo sometimes hangs out with me in my office and I swear to you on all that is ugly we laugh and laugh and laugh like hyenas, him 11 and me 40, yet somehow building a bridge to mirth and festivity under the florescents. I've already warned his mother that I fear I've shortened his life or rendered him sterile with the sheer force of my laughter over the crap we talk about when he visits. He jokes that my booming laugh sends him rolling into the opposite wall in my boss's office chair. I joke that his maniacal laugh makes the mice in the storage room next door poop themselves as they run for cover. Then we laugh and laugh some more.
Every office ought to come with an 11 year old volunteer to shred your abs with belly laughs in the late afternoon as he shreds documents and files stuff. You know, like folks in nursing homes get therapy animals, office workers should get therapy middle-schoolers. It works wonders on me and I already like my job! Just imagine what it might do for you. At the very least you could start with an Ugly Doll. Take one to work with you and watch the atmosphere change. You'll be laughing before you know it.
(c) 2012, ACG
Chewy Noodles and Down Time
Every tiny change is cause for celebration here where so many things are traditional and protected from progression. I suppose it must frighten many of the locals who don't want things to change; foreign food means foreign people with foreign values and influences, right? Damn straight it does. Bring on the stimulation, I say. Bring it with spice and sauce and ingredients I can't pronounce correctly. Bring it with accents and colors and strange aromas. Bring it with all the wonder of unknown language and fascinating culture. Bring me something I don't recognize. Integrate me. We can start with the chewy noodles.
Now it is back to the routine. Yoga. Bedtimes. Daily art devotionals. My clients. The delight of not knowing what The Chef will make for dinner each night until I walk in the door. Solving problems. Laundry. Reading myself to sleep. It was a jolly holiday and I return from it rejuvenated and appreciative. As much as I love to travel I do see the beauty of a true break without the diversion of road logistics and adventure. As exhilarating as it is to get away I see now that when you stay home you stand a better chance of truly resting. Even as busy as I was with all the planting and running it wasn't a whirlwind of exhaustion. Interesting contrast; no blur of constant activity, sightseeing, rushing to make the most, etc. Real down time. Contentment. Ease. I enjoyed the hell out of it.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Fat Sack of Shit
Tramping around a local nursery I found a pert Peaco pic opportunity in one of the natural cubbies of a driftwood table. Couldn't resist a little peekaboo. No one at the nursery even noticed, unlike the stares and questions I got when I took him in to the tire store. At least three hairy rotund barons of Razorback pride stopped me to ask "What is that thing?" Even after I explained I don't think they understood. They nodded and went on to their tire mounting. Peaco went on to mounting tires. This just never stops being fun. I will say it again--no man ever got so much mileage out of a Valentine's Day gift as the man who gave this one.
Earlier this week I shared this link on Twitter but I am sharing it again here because I don't want to miss anyone. I think I've reread this five times since Jenn posted it. I feel strongly that someone or maybe many someones need to hear this message this way. It's been said before but sometimes it is the way it is repeated or rephrased that makes it penetrate. http://www.rootsofshe.com/tabula-rasa/ Sometimes the stripping off of the flowery romantic language is what makes something more potent. Simplicity can startle. This jives right along with my new religion of ultimate truthtelling, which is why it interested me in the first place. In reading it again and then again I heard something else whispered to me. There are seekers among my readers. Don't leave them out. After you've eaten, feed them too. My Sassyism from the dentist's chair zinged across my mind. No one heals alone.
Truthtelling is a practice. It doesn't just take discipline to start doing it all the time, it takes courage and continual effort to stop not doing it. We think we are being practical when we are being honest with ourselves but if what we call honesty is just a very motivating lie disguised as the truth we sabotage the practice before it starts. A very motivating lie is something that sounds right but isn't actually the truth. It does spur you to action or change but not from a place of honesty. It's usually from a place of shame. Think of the reasons we might motivate ourselves to lose weight or change our habits or be a better whatever. If we use a motivating lie rather than the honest-to-goodness truth to spark our change then it will not be a lasting or meaningful transformation--only another disguise.
I used to have a friend who motivated himself to work out regularly and keep his weight under control by writing a code on his right hand that he would see every time he reached for food. The code was FSOS. It stood for Fat Sack of Shit. That's what he didn't want to be--a fat sack of shit. Someone told him the lie (maybe it was him) that the result of not working out, eating healthy, and not having a trim physique is that you are SHIT. No. NO! That's a lie. It's a very motivating lie that appears to prompt positive action but in reality only makes my friend choose that action so that he won't be shit.
My friend was, in reality, gorgeous. He was very fit and smart and funny and a great father and completely in love with his wife. He was a beautiful human being. He embraced poetry and philosophy and music. He was broadly cultured, open-minded, and well educated; a teacher and later a successful attorney. Hip and attractive, he was everybody's favorite guy. On face value alone he was the total package--all of the very good whatevers. How could someone like him walk around feeling like he was shit? Easy--he was lied to and believed the lie and the very convincing power of the lie to the point of using it as his own resource. He was, inside his own heart, shit walking around disguised as something better. It makes me want to scream and throw a tantrum that we murder ourselves over and over this way.
How many times have I heard a woman close to me choose a certain action because she "doesn't want people to think I'm a bad _________." So we aren't choosing to be a good __________, we are choosing not to be a bad one--whatever it is. This is not truthtelling. This is why we don't experience or achieve lasting change in our lives. This is disguising ourselves as the good whatevers when we won't actually BE the good whatevers until we start making our choices from truth instead of shame. Who wants to be, for example, a good parent in disguise? Wouldn't you rather just be a good parent? Who decides whether or not you are a good parent? Careful with your answer now. If it is anyone other than YOU, you are parenting with shame and not with any of the things you say you really want to instill in your children. Letting someone else define the terms of your parenting is telling yourself the lie that you are not capable of defining those terms yourself.
To give you another example, I know two teenagers who are not allowed to use profanity on Facebook. Their mother obsessively searches their Facebook activity to make sure they are not using cuss words or making vulgar references. When I asked them if their mom has a moral objection to profanity they said "Oh heck no, she cusses all the time." When I asked them why they aren't allowed to use profanity their answer made me want to use a whole bunch of profanity. "...because my mom says it reflects poorly upon her as a parent."
Put aside the question of profanity for a second and take a look at the motivating lie underneath this. I'm a teenager learning my way in the world. I just learned that I should not make a social choice based upon its own merit and consequences but rather should make it based upon how it makes my mom look. When these kids get into trouble for using profanity on Facebook this hands the shame right down to the next generation. I am a bad kid for making my mom look bad in front of her friends and peers (shameful reason and lie) rather than I shouldn't use profanity in public because (insert truthful reason).
How many of us do what we do because we are afraid that if we don't, we won't be loved? This is essentially telling ourselves that we are not worthy of love as we are. That's a lie. It's just one lie but it is a big one and the one we all probably have in common. At work I hear the women around me call themselves stupid all the time, usually when admitting a mistake. This is essentially telling ourselves that we are not worthy of the learning process--that we are not allowed to learn and are somehow defective for not being born with innate brilliance regarding all things. That's a LIE!
Why in the world to you think people really cheat on their spouses? Because something is wrong with the cheatee or even just wrong with the marriage? Nope. Lie. Not even close. Spouses cheat because they are ashamed of something; they think they are shit/failure/unworthy. Attracting, pursuing, and attaining a new sexual or romantic partner assures them that they are not shit/failure/unworthy. Lie. It is not a coincidence that affairs usually come with new clothes, new hair, and new interests. More disguises; I'm not a piece of shit as long as I don't look like one. I am not a piece of shit as long as I can still make someone want me. Cheatees then think they are shit/failure/unworthy because their spouse didn't remain faithful. Another lie. It's maddening and it's hard to swallow but once you begin banishing shame and living in truth this is the shit you start seeing all around you (and in you).
The fat sack of shit is something you carry around with you but it is not who you are or ever were, at any level, or as a result of anything you've done or failed to do. It's a just a lie. Fondle it and you just may discover a reason to drop it.
(c) 2012, ACG
Black and White In March
Since I am catching up, my portrait for week one was pulled from the archives. This was a selfie that I attempted back in my east coast days. I was trying to do a Mona Lisa smile. The idea was to wear no makeup and have non-descript hair and make the viewer see something else. This was a big deal for me at the time because I would never photograph myself without makeup. It was an experiment to see if I could make it work but I never ended up using it because 1) the Mona Lisa look just didn't come across with blue eyes, 2) Mona's Lisa's smile just does not work without lipstick, and 3) my fat cat ruined the shot anyway. He plopped int0 my lap just before the timer snapped. I held him down and held the smile, thinking I would crop him out later. I never did. Who would have thought I would find a use for it almost eight years later? I turned it black and white and then processed it a bit to give it a newsprint look and then I saw the Mona Lisa eyes. Duh. I should have thought of black and white eight years ago!
My portrait for week two is one you may have seen before if you've been here awhile. It is not a face shot but I worked really hard on it and it will get me completely caught up and ready to create something new for weeks three and four! You may recall that this was an homage to the man's shirt we have all worn at one time another--with my breast inside it, of course. So here's my smile, here's my obese cat from days gone by, and here's my boob. On to the next!
I'm early for week three! Since it was raining this morning I skipped my run and did photo fun instead. I didn't want to give Jo Steeple impression that I still have cool hair so I created a new headshot for a more balanced perspective. This is what I actually look like today. I processed it for the effect of a worn book jacket photo you might on an old novel in a used bookstore. So for week three, this is what a freelance writer looks like when her novel isn't finished, she ran across the parking lot in the rain, and her wet galoshes are making her office smell like new tires.
Week four almost got away from me again! A Mae West style selfie to finish out March! Mae Westian? Mae Westish? Mae Western? (giggle) Her ghost is sitting on the cushion next to me rolling her eyes and saying "Honey, no matter what you call it people are still just gonna see hooters." Spring is springing forth and so am I. By September I will be so freckled this will be a completely different view so we'd better collectively enjoy the decolletage while we can in the Sass-West style.
Oh wait! I forgot that there were five Fridays in March! Here's my week five selfie, just for fun. Early morning on the front deck drinking tea and listening to the neighborhood wake up. Thinking of last night's dream. Preparing for a run and my last day of Spring Break. Yawn. Better get moving. In a minute.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Rainy Day Doodle
It is still raining. Maybe it needed to rain this long to prompt me to doodle! Here's a new one for you. Fence Line Impressionists.
Doodling is a dandy indoor sport.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Metaphor
Bella's challenge this week asked me to produce an image of one thing I really love. Just one? Honey please! Let me give you twenty! Just one example of anything is a challenge for me. I always balk at the Name Your Favorite ___________ questions too because I am loathe to narrow things down to just one and call it better than all the others. Even after I pick something there is always that annoying justification for why I picked one thing over another that just makes the whole process feel unsatisfactory. Sigh. For the purposes of a photo essay prompt, however, I do get it that one image is the only practical choice. Thank you Bella, for not asking for a favorite. I love so many things. This is just one--not better or best or favorite--just one.
I pulled this image from the archives of my trip to Oregon. I was still drinking coffee on the hotel balcony when this older couple went running by in the rain. A few hours later I would follow them in a run of my own that left me bleeding and laughing with a great story to tell for years to come. Running is one thing thing I really love. Travel is another. Adventure is yet another. Writing, yoga, philosophy, mystery, serendipity, sex, art, enlightenment and on and on but the road and led me all of these things was the one I ran upon. I can trace my love of so many things I cherish today back to the day I started running. It changed my life.
Let me also say that I love the irony of using a statement such as "running changed my life" because running has been the only constant in my life over the last twenty years. Everything else has changed and I do mean everything. Many things have come and gone. Hell, I have come and gone. I certainly have changed along with everything else too. How many homes have I had in the last twenty years? I've moved to six different states, bought two houses, rented a dozen others, and changed jobs at least as many times. I said hello and goodbye to how many friends? I've married and divorced and married again. Became a vegetarian; started eating meat again. I've traveled across the country and back again multiple times. I've picked up new hobbies and dropped them in favor of others. I've learned and forgotten and relearned life lessons. Started writing, stopped writing, started writing again. I lost parents and gained children. I found love, lost love, then learned what love really is (and isn't). I changed my religion. I changed my politics. I changed my body.
Throughout it all, the thing I've never given up no matter how tumultuous the changes were is running. I have now been a runner longer than I have been anything. One of the most important life lessons I learned is that nothing lasts without changing, so of course my running has changed too. It's always changing to keep up with the ebb and flow of my life but I haven't stopped running (barring injury) since I began all those years ago in the desert. No one does anything this hard for this long if they don't love something about it. All the reasons I love running belong to another blog but today the reason is the metaphor of this long strange journey of mine through change and growth and death and new life. I've run through the process of ignorance and wisdom and attachment and impermanence and journey on knowing that I may accumulate nothing in this life that cannot be lost. I must adapt to the conditions and the terrain in order to keep running. My hands must remain empty in order to keep running. I run on bearing only what can be carried by my heart.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Unstructured Time
I had no time or inclination for blogging over Days Two and Three of Spring Break because I've only been inside long enough to wash off the dirt and sleep. We've been hard at work in The Jesus Crack Yard; seven hours on Sunday alone weeding, planting. and building new landscape beds! Yesterday we hauled boulders from the river for borders and even found a funky piece of driftwood for the rock garden. We have planted and weeded and hoed and mulched and cleaned and laid pavers and pea gravel for a stone path until even the dog has grown bored of our company. Vegetables, herbs, flowers, shrubs; is there anything we haven't planted in the last 48 hours? It still baffles me that I enjoy this so much but I really do. I suppose it's the creative element that makes it seem less like work to me. It's not just a yard to me; it's my outdoor art gallery. Making that a living outdoor art gallery.
I would gladly pay someone to scrub my toilets and mop my floors twice a week but when it comes to the landscaping and gardening I actually look forward to doing it myself. We knocked down an old lattice wall to open up the patio and started prepping for the water feature last night. We would probably be back at it today if the stormy weather had not forced us to take a break. When we haven't been bending our backs in the sun we've been sitting out here eating, drinking, relaxing, and planning. Even as the storm clouds build this morning I am out on the back deck in my nightie and sock feet drinking coffee and typing. I just can't seem to stay inside this week. I am loving it--all this hard, dirty, sweaty work. I've told you folks many times that I chose this cracked, haunted, seasick old house for the yard so I guess it stands to reason that if I'm not traveling I'm spending my vacation out here fondling the bamboo and St. Augustine.
I've got a run to squeeze in before the clouds burst and then I suppose I'll have to find some indoor sport to inspire me. It probably won't be scrubbing the toilets or mopping the floors. Maybe I'll work on the novel or make some new Language Art. Maybe I'll do some yoga to stretch out my achy back and legs. Maybe I'll meditate on my tuffet and listen to the rain. Isn't that the best part of having unstructured time--being able to do what you want when you want to do it? Vacation is less about where you go and more about doing what truly refreshes you, isn't it? When the storms pass I will come back outside and do some more of it.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Pucker
I found more of that love I've been slinging around. This time it came back to meet in the produce aisle at one of the Field Trip Stores. This is what The Chef and I call the fancy supermarkets with all the organic/exotic/gourmet stuff. We take field trips to the west side the city when we can't find specialty items such as Irish banger sausages for St. Patrick's day. I usually stop by the heirloom tomatoes just to fondle them and giggle and gawk at their funny shapes, sizes and colors. I almost always leave with one too--so delicious and strange! This one was a messenger delivering back to me another portion of the love I've been dishing out. A huge portion; this massive mater was easily 8 inches across. You'll notice it dwarfing the normal-sized relatives underneath it. The size of it was only one delight. The heart shape was obviously the more poignant (and sassy) delight.
Tonight we will toast our Gaelic brethren though my observance of St. Patrick's Day is a little rebellious. I deliberately wore no green because I like getting pinched! Tomorrow we will eat puckered heirloom tomatoes and feel the love of many nations. Slainte, my readers! The sausages are ready--time to get my bang on.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Spring Break
Lamps at The Local Flavor. Our favorite brunch spot from last weekend (and every weekend away) features a wrap around ledge filled with kitschy vintage lamps decking the rim of the room. On a cloudy mountain morning they warm up diners before the coffee even hits the cup. I haven't done much in the creative arts today because I've been mired in spreadsheets but its never far from my mind. I am considering stealing this idea for my office so that I can turn off the awful overhead flourescent tubes. It already looks like an art gallery in there. I love it that people walk in, take a look around, and have no idea what kind of work is done in my office. It's wall to wall art and consignment furniture. A giant peace sign. A long-necked cat. A Chill Monster. What the hell do you people do in here? Fondling the whimsy!
I'm off for Spring Break this coming week so I have no idea what that means in blogging terms. I might blog every day or I might not blog at all. We'll just have to see how the week goes. I'm not going away. I'm staying local and working on home improvements to The Jesus Crack House. I have a concrete floor to stain, a lattice wall to take down, a hedge to plant, and hopefully a fountain to install. If there is time I also hope to re-grout a shower and continue spring landscaping. After that's over I might squeeze in some hiking and a picnic. I will also run every day. I imagine I will put fingers to keyboard at some point. Working with my hands always fires my creativity so the words will come as I get dirtier and sweatier and I'll need an outlet for them sooner or later.
Adult Spring Break is a hoot. It never mattered to me much when I was still in school because we were too poor for debaucherous trips to Florida. Spring Break just meant sitting around the house with an unwanted babysitter (even after we were in high school) waiting to go outside. We weren't allowed to leave the house until my dad got home from work. We couldn't go swimming or bike riding or even lay under a tree reading a book until he came home sometime after 6 pm. This is why I affectionately refer to my childhood home life as North Korea. We weren't allowed to watch 95% of what was on television. We were only allowed to talk on the telephone for 10 minutes at a time and even then it had to be in the kitchen in full view of the family. We were not allowed to eat between meals. We were not allowed to take naps after school. All books and magazines had to be screened before we could read them, including those from the school library. Clothing had to be preapproved. Make-up was forbidden. Church in a dress was mandatory three times a week. I could go on and on but I won't.
Anyway, in college I was already working two jobs so Spring Break was mute. As an adult with no children to take on a family vacation Spring Break was also mute. So here I am now as a middle-aged adult working for an organization that observes Spring Break and suddenly it is no longer mute. It's a hoot. My first real Spring Break at 40! AppleJack took the week off too. It is the same temperature here in Central Arkansas today that it is in Florida, so minus the beach and an overpriced hotel room I've got myself all the right conditions for an honest-to-goodness Spring Break experience. Wine rack is full. Chef is on duty. Air conditioning is on. I know you're thinking I ought to be doing something besides manual labor with it but this actually what I want to do with my week. The crushing heat of summer will be here all too soon so this is prime production time for a sassy household.
Maybe if time allows I'll go crappy lamp hunting. Or just lay under a tree reading a book. Or put on a bunch of make-up and eat a snack at 2:30. It could get wild with no rules, you know. Enjoy the weekend my readers! See ya when I see ya.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Dream State
I just can't seem to shake the dream I had last night. I'm trying to concentrate on finishing up a few projects before we close for Spring Break but this dream is demanding my attention. I don't even really know why. It wasn't confusing or disturbing. It was very peaceful and really kind of quiet. I just keep seeing the images over and over in my mind and remembering how I felt. I felt that I should warn all the adults in the room that the grandchild was reaching to play with a mouse. That's a mouse, by the way. Yoohoo! Hey, that's a mouse. But the mouse was so old it was deemed harmless. I had never seen a mouse with curly fur. I thought it was just a big dust bunny on first sight. The little girl didn't hurt it and wasn't afraid of it. The mouse didn't seem all that worried either.
I remember how much I wanted to touch the body of the woman who had so much plastic surgery that her skin on her belly and chest didn't even look real anymore. She was so unashamed of all her surgery--proud even; as if she were trying to prove that she had done something about her ugliness and was therefore absolved of it. I felt sorrow for her body. I wanted to heal it. I kept wanting to touch her and ask her if she could feel it but she only said over and over how fat she used to be and pointed out this place that used to be wrong and that place that used to stick out and on and on and on. Her breasts were so misshapen but she could only see with satisfaction that she wasn't fat anymore. The way her skin looked didn't matter to her. Her nakedness in front of me didn't even matter. I still see her eyes narrowed, waiting for me to approve. All I could do was touch her and wonder to myself what she really looked like before.
I can't stop thinking about the old woman who had given up and was ready to die. She was so depressed she was beyond sorrow. Nothing mattered to her; not even the fact that she was dying. I got there before her family did. They must have known she was dying too. I said to her before they arrived, Your children are coming to see you. Your grandchildren too. She didn't care. She was done. She didn't even seem to mind that I was in her house. She sat matter-of-factly with her chin resting in one hand and slumped, waiting for me to take her away. I didn't get to see her die. She had gone back to her bedroom. I was in the kitchen but I felt her dying and it wasn't until that point in the dream that I knew why I was there. Families members came down the hallway from her bedroom and told me she was dying.
Oh I wish I could have stayed asleep so I could know what I did next! What did it look like? How was I able to do this?
This makes me remember all those dreams I had in which I saw people dead or dying. I still remember being under the water in that lake and seeing that couple drop silently into the water and settle on the bottom with their mouths open. I remember standing by that ditch in England and knowing that a girl was buried there. Dreaming about Connie's deal relatives...So many dreams like that and now this one in which I have come to take a dying woman away. What the hell is this? Where was I taking her? Where did I come from? Was I coming back after she was delivered? Was I still human? Was I a ghost? Why was no one afraid of me? This doesn't make logical sense--that's the most intriguing part--yet it all felt completely natural and reasonable. I suppose that's why I can't let it go. It conflicts with what I think I understand yet it doesn't feel wrong or fake or even scary. My logical mind is questioning it in known terms and parameters but I was operating freely in the dream within unknown terms and parameters.
I remember when Elle Steeple and Mish Steeple would discuss my dreams and one said to the other "This is gonna be big!" This certainly feels big. Bigger than I can even understand. Maybe know that I've written it down I can clear my head a little and be productive. Or maybe I'm not supposed to clear my head. Don't know. I'm listening though. And waiting.
(c) 2012, ACG
Serpent Tea
The Magic Tea Cup has given me a snake sticking out his tongue this morning. It could also be a turtle or a chameleon. ** hiss **
Being contentedly free of Biblical pressures, I tend to agree more with the cultures that use snakes as symbols of healing and transformation rather than evil. It fascinates me to no end that the evils of the world are committed by human beings rather than snakes or any other creatures, yet symbols of human beings aren't typically used to represent evil. I see devils and snakes and bats and bugs and mythological creatures representing evil but never the evil doers themselves--the humans. The only exception seems to be depictions of war, which even then is considered by some to be a necessary evil, so humans get a pass. It's really the biggest crock of doody we could possibly dream up--convincing ourselves that we couldn't possibly commit the evils of the world without some kind of outside influence.
Let me also go on record and say that I don't believe in Satan or demons or any of the traditional scapegoats that are typically blamed for the evil deeds of men (and women). I don't think we get to blame our evil deeds on mythological beings. We have to own what we do in this world; we don't get to pass the buck of responsibility and say that something or someone seduced us into evil deeds. It's a cop out, in my opinion. We don't want to believe that the evil forces of the world are man-made and not devil-made. It is frightening to think that the forces that compel us to cheat, steal, lie, rape, and murder are really our own, isn't it? It is much easier to ascribe those compulsions to an evil spirit, isn't it? That way we don't have to face the truth about ourselves, we can just play the victim right along with our victims.
I tend to believe that no one can deliver me from evil but me. Why? Because I am the only one who can stop being afraid. All of the evils we commit are rooted in fear. I look back on all the bad decisions, misdeeds, and lapses of judgment of my past (and present) and recognize that every time I did something I regret I did it out of some kind of fear. Sometimes that fear had also become anger or hurt but at the bottom of the lies and the delusions and the crappy justifications I know the root cause was always fear of something. I believe this is universal to the human condition, which is why we all cause suffering and why we all suffer. Inventing an evil creature to take the blame for it is the way we cleverly sidestep having to deal with that truth. We transfer it all to this terrible being and then live in more fear of the terrible being and thus the cycle continues.
This is why it has become so important to be real and truthful all the time, with everyone, in every possible situation--so that I don't make decisions out of fear or shame or anger or hurt.
The only way to conquer evil is not to create it and not to perpetuate it.
I realize even as I write this that very few of my readers can probably embrace this philosophy because most are steeped in traditional Judeo-Christian doctrine which is their truth. That's okay. This is why I call myself a congregation of one. My intention is not necessarily to convert anyone, it is simply to tell my truth as I said--everywhere--even here staring at a serpent's tongue. When the image of snake shows up in the bottom of my tea cup I don't take it as a bad omen or an image of evil. I take it as a prompt to shed old skin and renew my creativity. I take it as a prompt to heal old wounds and fears with the truth and as an assurance that the greatest source of wisdom in the universe is simply being alive and paying attention.
(c) 2012, ACG
Letter C Tea
The Magic Tea Cup has spoken again. "C" for yourself what it had to say today:
The letter C could be just about anything (or nothing). Most interestingly, I dreamed about a blue Cadillac last night. Make that a blue Cadillac pedal go-cart that could fly. I was so enamored with this thing in my dream even though it is totally foreign to me in real life. It was old and beat up but oh, I loved it so. It didn't fly until near the end of the dream so I really loved it because it was so unique and kitschy; the flying part was a bonus surprise at the end. The C might be something else (or nothing else)--who knows? It's a neat image though.
My adventure away was everything I wanted; the race was hard and the rest was relaxing. It helped enormously that I didn't crash into any fire hydrants this time. The hills on the race course were ridiculously steep and long but I already knew that; I climb them a few times a year at a leisurely pace so I knew exactly what to expect. I had fun with it just as I planned. I was delighted to pick up my race bib and discover that I was given #13. Throughout the second half of the race I did the pass-and-pass-back leapfrog with a runner wearing bib #7. Just past the halfway point we finally broke down and started chatting as we climbed ever upward and then ended up finishing together, holding hands and cheering jubilantly because we were dead last and thrilled with our condition. It was far and away the toughest 10k course I've ever seen. I know it is hard for my non-running readers to understand how something so difficult could be so much fun but it's all in your attitude. A last place finish was the funniest possible ending and when it turned out to still be good enough for 3rd place in my age group, it was funnier still.
The art part of the adventure was also a jubilant win. AppleJack and I found a long lost piece of sculpture that we were positive was lost to us forever. Events over the last two years conspired to keep us from acquiring a specific artist's piece that we left behind on our first anniversary trip. Every time we have gone back for it since then we found it still missing. Surprise! This time the artist had been there in the off season! AppleJack found her work in a glass case while I was negotiating an after hours massage with the art dealer. Our hearts' desire finally came home with us four trips later. When I unwrapped the sculpture from his many dressings he said to me "I am Francis." I relayed this information to AppleJack. He shook his head and said, "Nope, he told me his name was Thornton." Francis Thornton is now holding court with the ghosts at the Jesus Crack House as if he owned the place. I will plan a photo shoot as soon as we get another rainy day.
The rest of the weekend was a simmered soup of shellfish, piano bar frolic, stray cat strutting, tuffet shopping, and twice a day hot tub soaks. The inn was guarded by a dog with a mohawk. There was a Lovin' Spoonful in the lobby. Newlyweds paid a professional photographer to take a picture of the wedding party in front of the local convenience store. Not kidding about any of it. Is it any wonder I love that place? We came home to find spring sprung and plans for The Zombie to come live with us for his last two years of high school. The Zombie is still negotiable; we will have wait for orders. Spring is not; change of season orders have already been posted in Arkansas. I more or less blew back into town on the heels of a thunderstorm, hopped directly into the stirrups at the doctor's office, and then immediately went to work and put in my request for summer vacation. Give me a taste of adventure and it really only makes me want another taste.
With only three days left until Spring Break, I think I can make it. I will sit upon my tuffet and meditate on what it will be like to be a full time parent. I will plan my next trip, conjure up personalities for inanimate sculptures, and keep plugging away on the novel. Hump Day cometh. I fondleth all humps.
(c) 2012, ACG
Outside The Lines
I came home from my weekend adventure to discover that nature had been coloring outside the lines back at The Jesus Crack House. As a subscriber to the theory that beauty is just as beautiful off the pedestal and out of place, I found it a spectacular mess.
Fondle some disorder.
(c) 2012, ACG
Winston Churchill Tea
I am three hours away from crossing another item off my Bucket List so it probably wouldn't bother me if The Magic Tea Cup had given me Attila The Hun this morning. I still would have laughed and washed him down the drain. By nightfall I will be eating snails and listening for the whispers of Victorian ghosts. Right about the time most of you are rolling out of bed tomorrow I will rolling with the cold wind up and down a mountain at a happy glacial pace. By lunch I will be blissfully drinking in the sights and sounds of an eclectic art crawl with live music and all the weirdos, freaks, foreigners, gay people, poets, liars, dreamwalkers, and vagabonds my liberal little heart can stand. I've been waiting five years for this weekend. When a dream comes true you don't really care who shows up in your tea; you drink up and dive down the rabbit hole anyway. I thought to myself as I was falling asleep last night and not worrying about whether or not I packed everything I need, that if I get to be a ghost I will be a happy one because I have already picked out my summer home. If you get to be a ghost too, remind me to send you an invitation to vacation with me; I'll show you all the great haunts.
Yoga modeling class was magical last night. Everyone laughed real laughs--not the polite fake kind but the snorty throaty clenchy belly kind. We grunted. We thought of hippos and sex. We spoke of rotten toenails and swackets. We worked in groups of three to balance one foot on the axis of the earth and then let it spin while we flew perpendicular like Supergirls. It's true. When someone walked into the room we dropped onto our backs like dead bugs. We even got our butt cheeks adjusted. (Not lying or exaggerating.) It made one woman moan and crumple to the floor. (Still not lying!) When one little firebrand tried to use me as a focal point and said, "Sassy, stop rocking!" I said, "Sassy can't NOT rock!" (Obviously still not lying). Yoga is not just about stretching. In fact, if you don't have a decently developed sense of humor you might want to consider joining a yoga class for that reason alone.
One of the great things about being a yoga model, aside from getting to coo and salivate over how fine you and your cousin look in dim lighting, is that you get a snapshot of your developing practice as a learning tool. Although it is hard to tell because of the curve of my juicy caboose, I got my hips and back completely off the ball last night. If my yoga teacher had dropped down to knee level with the camera you would actually be able to see some open space between my super bendy back and the super bouncy ball. Another way to tell that I'm suspended over the ball is that the ball is round, as opposed to being compressed beneath my weight. It's a big deal. It's a triumph. It really sucks when the ball rolls away because you'll be ready to come down and it will be gone. But as miraculous as this felt to achieve last night I can see that I still need to work on getting those arms straight. It took me three years to get my shins straight and catch air so I'm still all wiggly and excited that I did this much. The next phase of the pose is straight arms. I'm almost there!
That's my cousin beside me, catching some sweet air too. Is she not gorgeous? She knows it--she's got a Stargazer Mirror that tells her so.
Updates from the grand adventure will likely be via Facebook and Twitter if you can't wait for me to get back here with more truth and fondling. Happy weekend!
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Hard Heart Hammer
Confronted with helping one of the Sister Five Girl Gang wage some body image warfare this week, it hit me like a bitch-slap from the universe. Don't lie! You do nothing genuine toward truly comforting her if you lie to her. The second bitch-slap--you know what they say about the relationships in our lives--that they are mirrors of our own emotional wellbeing. Don't lie with your own body or about your body either Sassy!
I can live with the anxiety of body image and endless comparisons and the blah blah blah of getting older or I can just tell the damn truth and be at peace with. It makes no sense to hate the truth about your body because it will assert itself over your shame. You can't hide the truth, try as you might, and resisting it only makes it last longer and bother you more. If you want to get over it, just tell the truth. Show it. Let it be seen. No camouflage and no ridiculous panic that someone will see it--make them see it. Tell the truth, whatever it is, and liberate it. I refuse to cover my thighs as I age because I am telling the truth with my body too. I am telling the truth of my body with my body. You may fondle it or look away but either way I ain't fakin' that this ain't bacon!
Many thanks to Laurie and the Teahouse Studio for the inspiration and the mirror. I am fondling that reflection.
(c) 2012, ACG
Good To Be Back
Peekaboo.
It appears I am back online. Technology once again returns to Friend from the Foe status it cultivated over the last week. I have read instances of other bloggers unplugging for a week for general mental health purposes but in my case it was an imposed break. I was stuck in internet purgatory for a week. I missed a lot of great stuff by the artists and writers I follow but I will take my time getting caught up on all that. Mostly I missed knowing my creative outlet was here even if I didn't have anything to post. I did have things to post though and I tried writing them down with a sort of shorthand so that I could recreate them once I was back in business. Some of the fervor was lost though--or maybe just that my mood/muse/intention had changed. It was nothing earthshattering of course--just my tedious little blatherings. You didn't really miss much. I missed sharing it though.
I finished up the last of my oral surgeries. I have a super great art and running adventure combined coming up this weekend. Went for a walk around Sunset Lake at sunset and saw Mercury, Venus, Jupiter and Mars all with my naked eyes! I stood beneath the arc of their orbits lined up above me and knew really and truly that I was the center of the universe. I peed in the woods after the sun went down and ran into a thorn tree with--I kid you not--five and six inch thorns on it. These daggers were as big as my hand! Never seen a tree like it before. Gotta remember to go back in the daylight and see it again.
I ate a dried and cured wild boar sausage with homemade pate and juicy little jewels called tomolives. Pickled baby green tomatoes. They look like green marbles but they are capsules of tongue magic. You just can't eat one and not smile! I nailed a grand slam presentation at work and helped set some new precedents in my department that left me so elated I couldn't sleep later that night. I can't remember the last time I was so keyed up about my job that I couldn't sleep. Honestly, I don't know if that has EVER happened. It was a crazy sensation. I checked out this Pinterest thing everyone is so gaga over. So far I'm not gaga. I either haven't done it enough or it isn't going to be my thing but everyone warned me that it was addictive. Not so much (so far).
Like I said--nothing worth stopping time over. It just feels good to know that my palette or my blank page or whatever you call this medium is available. I guess you would call this writing just because I can. While I was disconnected I found a handful of funny pictures of Denver The Devil Cat playing in the bathtub. He loves it in there. I soothed my creative soul with sassing up a few of the snapshots. I'll use them for something when the opportunities present themselves. For now, this one seemed to punctuate The Steeple joke that probably won't make sense to anyone else:
"Oh look! A kitty!"
(c) 2012, ACG
Home Is Where The Hurt Is
Home is an especially difficult concept for me because all the bad things that happened to me in life happened at home. Home was a tragic place for me as a child. It was a place of rage and poverty and perversion. It was a place that I felt I had to survive. I cannot conjure up the happy home memories that most people can recount--Moms and meals and birthdays and pets and the warm, soft, funny things. Home was never the same place for very long. Home was where people broke furniture and screamed curses at each other. Home was where you were punished for being born. Home was where there was never enough money. Home was where you stood when Mom finally left. Home was where you cried.
I know what you are thinking. Before you bother warming up a response, let me stop you. I'm an adult now. You think someone like me should grow up and find a nice fellow and make her own home sweet home, right? I can see it too--a place where she could make all those wrongs right and dream new dreams and build a better future. Well I tried it. I thought a house equalled a commitment and that all I had to do was to fill it with love and I could count on all those warm, soft, funny connotations of home being reborn in adulthood. I bought the dream with all the accessories--a man, a mortgage, and plenty of insurance. I planted things. I painted things. I cashed in the fantasy.
Turns out a house was not a home; it was just a building. Home was where I was when all the promises expired all over again. When I left the room the nice fellow was phoning his mistress. When I walked back into the room he was online dating. When I went to work, when I slept, and when I stepped out for a run, infidelities were premeditated and plotted inside my home. The nice fellow turned out not to be so nice. He kissed me goodnight and told me loved me on Tuesday. On Wednesday the fantasy dissolved. More furniture was broken. More curses were screamed. More punishments were issued. The house, the money, and the love didn't matter. Home was where I stood when the nice fellow went to live in someone else's home. Home was where I cried.
Is home a place or is home the people who live inside it?
Is home where your mother is? She left.
Is home where your babies are? They died.
Is home where your lover lives? He cheated. And left.
Is home a place where all your treasures are kept? Not after the divorce.
Is home where you are safe? There was a gun under the bed.
Is home where your parents live? They got divorced too. And died.
So what is home? What is home?
I listen to the young women around me buying/building/remodeling their first houses with all those starry-eyes expectations that it will be home to them--safe, happy, loving. I politely sit in silence as they prattle on about colors and trim and landscaping and husbands and I nod in all the pauses. I know what they want to hear. I know what readers want to hear when the topic is home--quilts and Thanksgiving dinners and bedroom windows and backyard memories. Neighbors and grandmas. Toddlers and gardens. I don't tell them that home was where my little sister was molested in the shower. I don't tell them that home is where "I will love you forever" became "I want to sleep with other women." I don't tell them that home was where I had to choose between jumping out a window or getting shot. I don't tell them that home was where I cried.
When I post this to Bella's photo project today and then take a look at the other participants' home images I already know what I am going to see and read. I know what it is supposed to look like and feel like. Happy things and pretty things. Kiddos and curtains. I know some people are living the dream and those that aren't are at least living the image of the dream. I could have crapped out on the truth and given them a picture of my blooming camellias or my mother-in-law's furniture or the dog playing in the backyard. My house is not unsafe anymore. There is no abuse in my house anymore. We have money and fun here. I could have photographed the cracks in The Jesus Crack House or even the Jesus statue above it and made a sassy joke out of the whole thing. I had a nice cute photo of my kitty peeking over the edge of the bathtub all ready to post like a good little blogger but how does that honor my real experiences of home?
I could acknowledge the pain and trauma associated with home in private--I realize that. I could have been a better sport about a project that is Bella's and not even mine but you'll remember that I don't do fake anymore. I don't tolerate shame anymore. I don't hide the truth anymore. You've surely been advised not to wash your dirty laundry in public but I'll tell you why hiding it is a bad idea for a writer trying to reach other women who are in pain. The reason you wash your dirty laundry in public is so that those who are struggling with shame can see a place that rings true to them. Women in pain need something real to which they can relate and not a fantasy. If you want to get through to someone trapped in a downward spiral of shame and resentment you show them that there other women who have survived it. They will never find the courage to transcend their horrors if they cannot relate to recovery that is based on experiences closer to their own.
Norman Rockwell was never a guest in any of the places that served as my home. Neither was Ansel Adams. Or Charles Schultz. Or Betty Crocker, or even Aunt Jemima. There was no Suzy Homemaker, no Harlequin Romance, and no Erma Bombeck. I don't really know how to represent home to you without telling the harsh truth. Manufacturing a false truth does not help someone looking for a place to turn that speaks to her own harsh reality. I have no skills with which to assist the Better Homes and Gardens clan. Those ladies have their own support group built right in and I'm glad they have it. If you happen to be someone who didn't have a happy home, I probably do know a thing or two about how you feel. Showing you that you are not alone and that you need not live in shame is the best way I can honor my real experiences at home. I know that home is where you cry.
(c) 2012, ACG
Sassy Is Still Here
Stand by.
Fondling Sinatra Before Noon
The weekend wander was such a success I am only now feeling recovered enough to give you the low down. The trail race was hilly and chilly but since the time clock malfunctioned no one received finishing times. I took this as an opportunity to exercise the alternative perspective and appreciate the race for all the other good reasons to run it. I ran it to support my good friend at her first race directing gig. I ran it with AppleJack coaching me up the rolling hills and across the suspended footbridges. I ran it to support the Fine Arts program at a local high school. I ran it for the adventure of the trail. I ran it for the surprise of stumbling upon a gaggle of peacocks with tail feathers about as long as my car. I ran it for the joy of running during what was probably the last cold morning before Arkansas turns on the hell-heat. I ran it for the chance to get naked in the woods cleverly disguised as changing into dry clothes. I ran it in for the unique feeling of rebellion that comes to those that then set out on a full day's activities without taking a shower. Doesn't matter what my finish time was or wasn't; I got lots more out of it than a number.
I ordered naked French toast at the breakfast diner. That's French toast with no suger and no syrup, just a little salt. I ate it with my fingers too. Later I would eat something called duck confit, also with my fingers, and purple tuna with wasabi so hot it could probably cure cancer. That was eaten with a chopstick though. The spice theme was to be carried throughout the day after my relatively calm breakfast as I drank fiery Bloody Marys at the race track. That's horse racing, not car racing.
The wandering began directly after breakfast, on foot. It included mostly art galleries and admiration of an old city in various stages of face lift. The bones of it are still lovely even if the facade is cracked and peeling. It was early enough in the season that there weren't many tourists milling around but there were some interesting locals to observe. One lady apologized to us for playing Frank Sinatra in her shop before noon, as if this was a great social faux pas. AppleJack assured her that any time of the day was a fine time for Frank. We spent more time in her shop chatting than shopping because she was so lively and engaging. She didn't ask the usual boring slate of questions. She had a personality that transcended retail banter and made you want to share a meal with her. I bought a purple bohemian scarf and left her in good spirits during the second verse of I've Got You Under My Skin.
I knew there were two yoga studios in the area. We went in search of them and found them both. They were both closed. However, one of them turned out to be a school where new and improved yoga teachers are trained. OOOOOooooooo! Yoga teacher training this close to home? Intriguing! Fondling the idea. We found a couple of chef stores for AppleJack to fondle too and one of them had the most incredible back door--like a dungeon. I didn't realize I was being observed on a security camera taking pictures of the ancient hinges and pulleys until we got inside the store and the owner told us we could have come in that way. Unfortunately I forgot Peaco. He was so disappointed he didn't get a chance to play with the dungeon doors where old gangsters got shot down under the gaslights while girls in garters sipped from flasks in shiny black cars.
Now about this horse racing. Yes, I grew up in Kentucky. Yes, I lived, worked, and attended college in the city where the Kentucky Derby is held. No, I never attended a horse race the entire time I lived there. I had to grow all the way up, travel across the country and back again, and finally settle in Arkansas before I would attend my first horse race. Knowing virtually nothing about the sport beyond my hometown Derby, the event was mostly a study of human behavior than anything else. This was a prime venue for people-watching, all gambling aside. Being only a few feet away from the horses as they finished was thrilling. Being only inches away from the angry rednecks as they spilled their beer and screamed expletives at the horses was less than thrilling but it was obvious that the only way to have one without the other was to pay for the segregation. I didn't pay. I stood at the rail and watched and learned. I got excited. I got disgusted. I got that gurgly mix of amused/appalled/appreciative at public displays of the grotesque and the gorgeous.
It was curious to me that inside the grounds near the betting windows were long benches where people took the initiative to segregate themselves by race and income. It really resembled a secular or recreational version of a church. The wealthy people ascended three stories above the rabble and ensconced themselves in glass walls and assigned seating. The common/poor/black folk down on the first floor pit sat on benches in dim lighting and ate hot dogs. The pit faced a feature wall of big screens showing other races going on around the country at other tracks and a long row of windows for placing bets. Folks sat on the benches to consider their bets, hang their heads, or rest before heading back outside into the sunlight with the herd to watch the next race. We stayed on our feet as AppleJack took me to the paddocks, showed me the grounds, and we filtered in and out with the rhythm of the races.
When sustenance was required we needed a place to sit and eat our sandwiches. Mine was a two-hander reuben oozing with saurkraut so I couldn't stand and eat it. Black folks sat to themselves on the left benches, white folks on the right. Kids of all color ran around playing with discarded betting slips accumulating on the floor. It was a full house. There was nowhere to sit. AppleJack resorted to balancing his box on the top of a garbage can while leaning against a pillar. I circled the benches like an usher trying to pass an offering plate a third time before giving up and planting my white ass over on the black side. A long row of burly black fellows looked up in shock as I approached and pointed to a space between them just big enough to fit my hips. I asked if I could sit. They nodded in agreement and looked at each other before looking anywhere else but over at me. I turned around and motioned to AppleJack standing in the rear. He grinned at me and kept eating. I dug in to my drippy lunch feeling like a lioness at feeding time at the zoo and waited for someone to speak to me. No one did. I could feel them staring though.
I washed down the sandwich with a couple of the aforementioned Bloody Marys and watched the afternoon's races whiz by in a blur of black, grey, and chestnut. It's funny that when you find yourself in close quarters with a large group of the general public you can't help but notice the beautiful people and the freaky people. Of the two I think I prefer the freaky people--at least they have character. What I noticed about the beautiful people is that they all looked the same. They all wore the same kind of clothes, same hairstyles, same style of makeup, carried the same bags, same giant sunglasses, same knee-high leather boots or platform heels. They were genuinely beautiful, yes, but a homogenized beautiful; fashion magazine beautiful. It was as if all the pretty women followed the same formula for pretty. None of the pretty men dared deviate from the narrow prescription written for them either. It actually made the freaky people more fun to watch; at least they were original and daring and didn't appear to be cookie cutter imitations of the last pretty girl that walked by.
After the track, dinner was fusion. We picked it over four other places. We squeezed in to a 4:30 seating between reservations feeling grimy from the track and underdressed for the service but eager for an adventurous menu. We were pleased. Tired, sated, and still unwashed from the morning's race, the foot travel, and the dirty racetrack, we journeyed home under the glow of Jupiter and Venus visible by the waxing moon. After a bath it was useless to fight sleep after such a full day. I think we were out cold before 9:30 p.m. Even if it all sounds rather pedestrian to the onlooker, it was the lack of structure that made it adventurous. No plan meant that every moment felt like a fun choice rather than an appointment with fun. We came home with gourmet condiments, a purple scarf, and a day full of experiences that were gathered by a willingness to open ourselves to any fork in the road. Not having a plan does not mean you don't have anything to do; it means you don't have to do anything. You can simply play, all day, fondling the direction that a lack of direction leads. I had a great time.
(c) 2012, ACG
Weekend Wander
Where did this week go? Friday already. Race weekend again already. Springtime already. Yesterday it was 82 degrees at The Jesus Crack House. I guess winter is gone, such as it was. As much as everyone else seems to long for spring I am always sad to see winter go. No more running on my lunch hour (too warm not to shower). No more open windows at the office. No more sleeping in on the weekends (too hot to run at midday). No more mosquito-free cocktail hours, coffee breaks, or hot tea interludes on the deck. No more sassy wooly hats and magic scarves. No more scraggly, craggly monochrome photos. Stuff is already blooming and greening and budding and the morning humidity will only climb higher and higher. The tornados will be here soon too. The flooding will come after that. Of course we will get flowers and lush lawns and baby wildlife as well, but still, no one really appreciates what winter was when spring is already seducing us. As the sun was setting yesterday I saw this battered moldy piece of cardboard blowing across grass that already has green roots showing. I hated to see winter blown away so soon with it. Bye bye gray days. Bye bye bare branches. See you again in nine months or so.
Tomorrow is a trail race (my favorite) and then a full day of adventure and exploring (more favorites) so I am packing up Peaco for his first day trip of the year and planning to enjoy an unstructured excursion in a city I usually just coast through. Kind of exciting to just go with no plan and see what happens; my kind of vibe. AppleJack and I did this in Dallas one day when we first started dating. We started out on foot with no map and no plan and happened across the most amazing little underground chapel. There was a weird white stucco bubble above ground but below there was a tiny little honeywood cove where people could go to pray or meditate or just escape the pressures of the city. It was completely soundproofed. There was softly filtered sunlight from a skylight and it operated completely independent of a parent religious organization. It was a blissfully calm all-comer's haven tucked right in between the highrise life of downtown Dallas. I doubt we would have found it unless we were wandering.
In St. Louis we found the coolest little French bistro that had more varieties of Bloody Marys than there were seats in the place. In Eureka Springs we went for a run and found a writer's colony tucked into the side of a mountain. In Oregon we found the gravesite of an unknown person that had died on the beach and been buried by Good Samaritans. In Fayetteville we found an odd little bookstore in which we assumed foot massages were being given in the front window. Remember the episode of Seinfeld in which George goes to see Tor, the holistic healer? It was that kind of place. Those massages turned out to be reflexology treatments going on in the front window. The staff was very condescending. We assumed it was because we didn't look New Age enough to be serious customers (we weren't!) so when AppleJack picked up a Buddhist dorje and joked, "Hey look! A miniature double egg beater!" the clerk rolled his eyes and turned his back on us.
Oh, and then there was the time we found Mitchell's Folly (shudder), a very disturbing curio shop that sold only creepy and macabre items in varying stages of rot and decay. It was manned by a freaky dude who refused to acknowledge us at first because AppleJack whispered to me that he looked like a serial killer (he looked worse than a serial killer). When he did speak to us he gave us a serious case of the willies and sent us upstairs to see an "art gallery." We obliged just to be polite and remove ourselves from his presence but at the top of the stairs we discovered that the art gallery was really just a bunch of headless baby dolls, taxidermy projects, and old dentist chairs. We had no idea that old man Mitchell had followed us and cornered us up there until we turned around to find him standing behind us and telling us to step out onto the balcony where there was a hidden staircase to a second gallery. The second gallery was full of sun-bleached skulls, some ratty old rugs and a French horn. We wanted out but quickly realized that there was no way out except back the way we came and old man Mitchell was on the balcony blocking our path. We ended up bailing out through a garden alley to the street below with goosebumps and hearts pounding.
Tomorrow we will wander again. I'm not expecting any chapels but that's the great thing about wandering--you don't really expect anything. You can't be disappointed if you have no expectations. It is time for me to go get it started with one of my birthday massages so I will leave you all with wishes for bliss and adventure for your weekends too.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Anti-Summit
Still plugging away on editing the novel. It’s funny. Now that I’ve more or less written it I don’t have that feeling of monumental accomplishment that I imagined. I spent my whole life up to this point wanting to write this book and now that I have written it I have to admit that it doesn’t really feel like a life’s work. This is not because I’m unhappy or dissatisfied with the work; I’m not. I like it. I think it’s good. But it just doesn’t feel like the artistic summit I imagined it would after so many years of wanting it so badly. It still feels like something I needed to do and I’m really glad I did. I’m going to see it through to completion but I have to be honest and say that there really aren’t any feelings of catharsis or epiphany. I am happy to have turned a wish into reality but now that it’s done (in terms of the writing) I guess it just no longer seems like such a big deal. I’ll still publish it but I think my emotional investment in it has changed. Even if it is well received I have the feeling that it was a milestone on a longer journey and not a finish line. Perhaps I was supposed to write it so that I would become a writer and then…well, that remains to be discovered, now doesn’t it? Maybe I was supposed to write a book so that I would grow into being comfortable and assertive with a gift but the book itself wasn’t necessarily the grand purpose of the gift. Perhaps it was a learning tool, like training wheels.
I’ve said at least a hundred times that it was never going to be about making money and it still isn’t. I wrote it for me. Only now that I’ve written it I guess I no longer feel like I need it. I’m pleased and proud and all that jazz but I’m just sort of over it, as odd as that may sound. As I am re-reading it and editing it I see how I put my heart into it but now my heart feels ready for something else. Ironically, this feeling of detachment seems to help the editing process quite a bit in terms of objectivity. I’m told most artists find it impossible to be objective about their work. I guess it gets easier once you outgrow the work (if that’s what I’ve done here). So now the motivation to get it all edited and tidied up is so that I can be free for whatever comes next. I have no clue what that might be. Maybe there is another book waiting; maybe something completely different. I don’t know. The joy of doing what I do is still as strong as ever but I guess I have just begun to measure it differently. It isn’t measured in novels anymore, if it ever was. Come to think of it, why measure it at all?
I always loved that line in the movie Frida when Diego Rivera tells Frida that his opinion of her work shouldn’t matter because, “If you’re a real painter, you’ll paint because you can’t live without painting.” I guess I no longer need to have Write A Novel out there as an impetus to write. Now that I have done it I can see that it never was a good reason to be writer. Being a writer because I don’t want to live without writing is the reason I’m doing it now. Whether it turns into books or something else or nothing else, the joy of letting myself write didn’t change when I checked the Write A Novel box. I am no happier and no sadder as a writer so it wasn’t the promise or the fruition of the novel making the magic. My old yoga teacher used to coax me not to practice goal-oriented yoga but to practice process-oriented yoga if I wanted it to be more than simply a performance. Perhaps that’s why I don’t seem particularly elated that I wrote a novel. At some point I began practicing process-oriented writing and stopped worrying about the outcome of it all. I know it must sound terribly anti-climactic but I’m not disappointed. I’m satisfied that I finally did what I meant to do but now that it’s done I feel that it wasn’t ALL I was meant to do.
I don’t know what else. I don’t have to know right now. It will come to me. I’ve still got lots of editing to finish in the meantime.
The Burning Truth About Being Right
Danielle LaPorte has a Burning Question series going on over at her site in which she has asked her readers to name one dumb thing they used to believe in. Wow, just one? I've got a metric ton of dumb things I used to believe in. Hell, half of them got me started as a blogger! The hours I used to waste blogging about the way things ought to be and the ways people ought to behave are staggering to remember. Did I really ever waste all that energy being irritated by everyday dumbassity? Yes, I did. I did it because one of the biggest dumb things I ever believed was that I was right.
That's not to say I decided I was wrong. I just finally wised up about the notion that my choices were right and someone else's were wrong. There is no such thing as a right choice or a wrong choice. Choice cannot be right or wrong; good or bad. Choices can be made from healthy places of good intentions or they can be made from dark places of ignorance and pain but it isn't the choice that is right or wrong. The choices we are make for our lives are directly relative to either the truths we admit to ourselves or the lies we tell ourselves. When those things influence our choices then our choices cannot help but be indicative of what motivated them. That doesn't make them right or wrong, it only makes them symptomatic of their root cause.
I'm not right and you aren't wrong; we simply have different needs we are nursing with our truths and untruths. Your choices will change when you embrace your truths, as do/have/will my choices. It's the same with our untruths. When we stop feeding ourselves illusions we stop making choices that support them. It makes no sense to assign qualities of right or wrong to choices simply because they differ from ours because at any given time we are all at different phases of living our real truths--maybe just living them a little, maybe not liiving them at all. Just like everyone assimilates to potty training at different speeds and via different motivations, so we all come to face our truths at different paces and via different paths. You aren't right just because you are a little further along and neither am I.
(c) 2012, ACG
Horsehead Tea And Birth Control
The raging debate over the birth control/health insurance issue strikes me as yet another ridiculous way we have dreamed up to divide ourselves into classes of right and wrong. Should employers be required to provide insurance benefits for medications or procedures they find morally objectionable? Yes. Yes, they should. The reason why has nothing to do with what is or isn't moral. It doesn't really matter whether or not your employer opposes or supports birth control. What matters is that your employer cannot impose her/his moral code or religion upon you.
If you give your employers the power to decide which health benefits they will or won't cover based upon their religions or their moral codes you are also giving them the power to manipulate your health care choices to suit criteria which do not necessarily include your health care needs. You give them the power to decide that you should just pray for deliverance rather than take an allergy medication or that you should just live with a disfigurement rather than have reconstructive surgery. It is much too slippery a slope when you consider how many religions there are in this country and many of them disagree about what is or isn't morally objectionable.
Do you really want to give someone else jurisdiction over your prenatal care or your child's immunizations based upon their religion? Suppose their religion opposes treating diabetes? What if their moral code found pace makers or organ transplants objectionable? Imagine you are the victim of a terrible car accident. I know of at least one branch of Christianity that prohibits its followers from receiving donor blood; meaning that they can bleed to death and be morally right or stay alive after a blood transfusion and be morally wrong. Start chipping away at the separation between how much another person's religion is allowed to dictate your choices--especially regarding your own health--and you slowly surrender whatever it is YOU believe just to remain employed. Isn't that just a passive form of slavery?
It only takes the voluntary relinquishment of one covered health benefit--such as birth control--to open the door for an employer to say no to coverage of anything. It needn't even be something as controversial as birth control; it could be eyeglasses or root canals. The larger point is that you don't want your boss making these decisions based on a faith or morality you may not share. Our employers are prohibited from discriminating against us based upon our religions to the extent that they cannot even ask our religions before deciding to employ us. Changing the existing laws would allow these same employers to withhold covered health benefits from us based upon not sharing their religions, which is discrimination. It baffles me that this is even up for debate.
There are 118 million women registered to vote in this country who risk losing covered health benefits simply by virtue of not sharing the same faith as their lawmakers. How could a voting force that is 118 million strong submit to something so unconstitutional and still stand idly by while we are gouged for the full cost of tampons and sanitary napkins? I'll tell you how; because it's not about birth control, it's about our juvenile need to classify the sinners from the saints, the good from the bad, and the saved from the damned so that we can take satisfaction that we are on the right team. We are so busy pointing and judging and quoting scripture at each other over our hymnals that we can't even see that we are being used as pawns to serve someone else's agenda. Who would reap the benefits of denying coverage for birth control? Who would get to recoup hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? Think about it. Women who were smart enough to demand their reproductive rights over the last century are smart enough to figure out who stands to profit from eroding them.
(c) 2012, ACG
Write On In February
My photo for week one is a bit of double entendre and deliberately mottled/muddled. I placed a heart over my freckled heart. You can choose your interpretation: Listen with your heart or speak from a listening heart.
My photo for week two is indicative of my love of living, eating, working, and buying local. As much as I adore travel and field trips I am a great believer in rebuilding sustainable communities. This ice cream was consumed on 2/10. How is this possible? It only had to travel down the street to get to my favorite organic market, not across the country. Bourdeaux Chocolate with a tiny carbon footprint. It is held by an arm which is held by a promise. I am aware that the promise looks like a gold bracelet but it's not exactly that. I'm not even wearing it as one would a treasure. It is holding me like a treasure. The promise is embracing my arm, which embraces everything else. Every gesture begins with that promise.
My photo for week three is permanent writing on my body. This is not just one of my tattoos, it is also the area surrounding one of my tattoos. I guess it's also one of my first experiments with negative space. The symbol is ancient, yet eternal; the forever learning and forever forgetting cycle of human existence.
Week four got away from me so just three this time!
(c) 2012, ACG
Light Fantastic
For the purposes of giving Bella an answer I had to choose one thing but I suppose it is still an intanglible. It's the way the light changes when the seasons do. You can't really touch ambient light, can you? You can feel it it touching you but can you touch it yourself? Voila--inspiration. On the heels of succumbing to the early darkness of winter comes the lengthening light. I caught myself sighing contendedly and pointing out to AppleJack that it was not dark as we approached the dinner hour. I pointed to reflected light on the wall in the next room and drew his attention to how much light was still coming in the window on that side of the house. I couldn't help it. I had to get up and go outside if only to acknowledge that I could do so without turning on the exterior lights. As I sat on the lowest step of the back deck and silently honored the sun's lingering gift my dog leaned against me and for just a moment was also silent and still.
(c) 2012, ACG
Dare I Say It? Fondling The Romance
This, my friends, is exactly how I feel on this warm Sunday evening. Tired puppy. I have droop. I have weary ache. I have good reason. Three days of hard running, spring cleaning & yard work, at least three big somethings crossed off the To Do list and four--count 'em!--FOUR chapters of The Book edited! This blond baby photo was taken by my friend Stacy and then glamorized (Sassorized?) by me. There is a place right between my shoulder blades that feels just like those puppy eyes melting closed. Did you know that one of the definitions of cuddle is to fondle in the arms? Oooooooh yeah. Fondle in the arms. I could use some of that right now. And right between the shoulder blades. Got a massage booked for Friday. Gonna get myself fondled in all the hurty places. I'm already moaning in advance.
My affinity for crowns has not abated in the slightest yet a new enchantment has settled in. Skeleton keys. There is something romantic that occurs to me when I encounter a skeleton key. It must be because they are nearly obsolete and it is their obsolescence that is romantic. Think about the reason you might a need a key and then think of the reasons you no longer need it. It is the release of the need to keep something locked up that sets the key and the lock and the treasure free. No secrets. Free admittance. Come in. Go out. See it all. Skeleton keys become separated from their locks because someone becomes separated from their need to maintain a barrier. This is more romantic to me than the things kept by keys and locks.
I only see the old fashioned skeleton keys this way because it is only these keys that symbolize old locks. Old doors. Old strongholds. I used to look at an old key and wonder to what sort of door or chest or drawer it belonged. I imagined mysteries. Now I look at an old skeleton key lost in the modern world and see that because it no longer has a companion door or chest or drawer it is a symbol of freedom and not mystery. It can never again lock anything away or lock anyone out. Old locks become sprung by some means even if their keys are lost so one way or another the things that get locked away are eventually liberated. No one saves these broken locks or doors yet curiously, the keys remain. They seem to be turning up everywhere these days.
An encounter with a skeleton key is an encounter with someone else's desire for privacy or protection. The key may have once been the tool of that desire but with time's passing it ultimately becomes the symbol of privacy or protection surrendered. That's the romance. All keepers of keys surrender them sooner or later. Someone gave up a stronghold, whether it happened by choice or death or some other event. The giving up of the need to retain the key is the enchantment for me. The richer mystery is not the treasure or the property or the boundary; it is whatever may have compelled that gesture of surrender. These old skeleton keys are the talismans of the romance. As unusual as it is for me say such a thing (maybe just because I am too tired to resist), right now I am fondling that romance.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fake Forsaken
I came home from yoga class tonight to find love in my carport. It was waiting for me right on the cement, easily as big as my head, on my path from the Rocket Ship to The Jesus Crack House. Must be more of that love I sent out coming back to me. I accept!
It's been a rowdy week. Interoffice revolutions, travel bookings, birthday parties, unpredictable weather, ass-kicking substitute teachers, and even a serenade of the whole damn town. It's true. Hell was raised. The Bohemian Rhapsody was raised. The College Girl got a tattoo. The full moon waned. Wolves appeared and disappeared. Sausage was made. Livers were eaten. Plants died. I once again dreamed someone's real life, completely unknown to me. Rowdy. Messy. Real. Life.
If I had even the smallest amount of pretention left in me I lost it this week. I said No at great professional risk and said Yes to compassionate singing in public. The No was to break a precedent that needed to be broken for a long time now. Could have easily backfired. Internal earthquakes. Deep breaths. It worked out. It was worth it. Rowdy. Uncomfortable. Real. Life.
The Yes was a rescue effort for a well-meaning kid who took on way too much karaoke and needed to be bailed out. At the critical moment of failure a posse was formed to lend him voice and the chutzpah to deliver it. Verse by verse, what began as a sympathetic back-up choir became a gradual bulldozing of the poor kid's song into rock 'n roll oblivion. It was a spontaneous act of kindness that flared up and burned so brightly that it's all a blur now. Spectators were cursing that their shock and awe prevented anyone from getting it all on video. Performers were thankful that no one did. Rowdy. Uninhibited. Real. Life.
Here we are at the end of this dreamy, creamy, screamy week. Everything attached to my bones quivers with exertion and the passing of adrenaline. One girl turned to me and said "I will never look at you the same way again." Another girl said "You are my hero. You don't do fake." Embarrassing or empowering--either way, fake is over. Fake exhausted me until I exhausted fake and found it completely unfulfilling. Empty. Chalky. There is no more wading in the shallows for the sake of appearances. There is now going under for the sake of authentic experiences. Not just having the experiences but providing experiences, too. What am I really giving if what I offer isn't genuine? Chalk. Ash. Smoke. Fake.
Fake has been publicly forsaken. Fatigue now comes from a cessation of half measures. Let it be ripe and rowdy now. Let it be real. Let it be life.
(c) 2012, ACG
Howling Wolf Tea
It was a passionate meal last night at The Jesus Crack House. The chef worked hard. We got the best table in the place with no waiting. I wore my hair up.
Wild mushroom salad
Oysters
Pan seared duck breast
Indian Bayou rice
Red wine
German chocolate cake
Coffee
It was good. A great inspiration to writers of novels, readers of magical women, and lovers of poetry. The inner sanctuaries of light and music were stirred. Simple. Genuine. Free from expectation and therefore free of limitation.
Today is one of those days I call a Bonus Day. Bonus Days are the days in which your best laid plans are supplanted by something else, such as weather. When your day doesn't go (or at least start) the way you intended you get a bonus day of something you didn't intend. I knew it was supposed to rain in the afternoon so I got up early to run before work. Rain came early--about seven hours early! Thunder and lightning with it. So I get a Bonus Morning to sip tea and read good things and write a little. Devil Cat looks angelic curled up beside me and the earth is getting a good long drink in the dark. My plans didn't get ruined. They just got changed.
Since today is the day I work on my novel I am going to resist the urge to write on in this philosophical mood and leave that work to another kind of day--rainy or otherwise. I will find another way to run today and another day to write but before I go must pass along The Magic Tea Cup's message this morning. It is either a canine with his jaws open or the letter K in script. I can't decide. If it's a wolf, as I think it is, he seems to be more jovial than scary so I'm going to assume he's got a song to sing. If it's a K, well I assume it's a clue to something that isn't immediately obvious to me now. And that's O...K...
(c) 2012, ACG
Snaggletoothed Sage
Chill Monsters know the measure of love.
It ain't Valentine's Day.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Alternative
I have learned the lessons of history well enough to know that no matter how staunchly I hold out for Valentine purity I am likely to remain on the losing team. Therefore I propose a treaty with the Inclusionists. You can have your Valentines Day for everyone. Valentine it up! Spend! Share! Shower! Have a good time with yourselves. We will shut up and look the other way. I propose that in exchange for a cessation of our resistance you allow the Purists to have another day and then leave it the hell alone! Keep Valentines Day but let us have another one that is ONLY for the lovers, sweethearts, and spouses. Do your thing on your day and let us do ours on our day.
As for the Venomists, I think you deserve a day too. Pick yourselves a holiday to celebrate and promote your singleness and then demand that the rest of us leave it the hell alone! It won't make Valentines Day or the proposed alternative go away but at least you could have a day of counterbalance. I know there are way more of you out there than there are Purists! Unite! The greeting card companies will back you, I swear. Invent a new holiday and they will invent a way for folks to spend money on it, guaranteed! You could put an R & D team on this and leak just the tiniest bit to the general public and before you know it the card/candy/jewelry/stuffed animal conglomerates will come to you. All you really have to do is pick a day. And a name.
Of course, the only way the Purists are going get a holiday that the Inclusionists won't pervert is to make it sound like something you don't want to share with your nieces, nephews, or Sunday School class. We need to call it something that separates it distinctly from just "Love" and makes it specific to yonder or the intention/hope of going yonder. Otherwise we will have people including their mothers and aunts and BFFs and on and on and on until it becomes just a second Valentines Day. What do you say Purists? Are you out there? Am I reaching you? Don't our lovers deserve a day of their own? Aren't the people who see us naked entitled to a holiday they don't have to share with your sister's kids?
We are smart people. We know that nookie is better than candy. Even if we aren't aspiring to nookie in our relationships yet we are capable and willing to separate and elevate romance and intimacy for one day all its own, aren't we? Let them have Christmas, Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Thanksgiving, and even Valentines Day if that's what they need. Let us declare a day with connotations so passionate they would consider it vulgar and distasteful to extend it to their daughters' gymnastics class. What do you say Purists? Help me think of a name? Venomists? We welcome your input too! The suggestion box is open.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Pink Parts
My Language Art today is a pink statement of seduction.
Don't you just want to slide your hand into these crevices? Don't you want to know what lies between these pages? Aren't your eyes drawn to the deeper pink gaps between them? There are curves and undulations. There are layers and gentle puckers. You're sure they must feel warm to the touch, aren't you? Of course you are. The pink spaces between beckon and insinuate, don't they? It's not just a stack of paper anymore. It's an interest, a compulsion, maybe even a need. If it was white it would just be a stack of paper and probably wouldn't spark the same interest. That's why pink is a power color. It hints and conjures. Yes, like a woman but also like other things of the earth that linger in between two colors. Just enough red to beguile. Just enough white or yellow or brown to relate.
The Magic Tea Cup showed me a tropical fish this morning but it was too faint to photograph well. The type of tea I drink seems to affect how dark the leavings are in the bottom of the cup. The stronger the tea, the lighter the image. The more floral and herbal the tea, the darker the image. I'm having Lady Grey this morning because the bergamot tingles my pink tongue. I wish I had something pink to wear as I run through the woods tomorrow. I always wear black when I race because my juiciness is so photogenic. Maybe it's time for some creativity in this arena. I swear if I had a pink superhero cape or a tutu I would consider it. I want there to be flashes of something pink through the trees that observers might not be sure they really saw. It's not about the costume. It's about creating something intriguing in the dark, cold, muddy woods that will catch the eyes of someone who thinks his/her eyes must be playing tricks. Did you see that? I could have sworn I saw something pink through the trees. Must be seeing things. Mmhmm. Exactly. I want you to think you saw some pink parts beckoning from deep in the forest. Come investigate. Get wet and cold and dirty and leave the trail looking for that pink. Get a little confused and a little scared but be sure you smell something and then there it is again! Something pink--over there, see it? What is that? Go deeper. Find it.
Sirens, mermaids, woodland fairies, ladies in the lake, crones in caves, bearers of scarlet letters and gypsies with mysteries. Sorceress, temptress, goddess. Don't fool yourselves that we aren't werewolves too, ladies. It's all the same appetite in prettier packaging. Last night as I slept I vanquished the bad guy without ever touching him and then went out for pizza. The power of pink needs no bravado.
(c) 2012, ACG
Love Note
This may not seem like a big deal to those of you still in practice but it was a significant deal for me because I've gotten spoiled by The Chef. Unless he asks for one of my Sassy Classics AppleJack does all of the meal planning, all of the shopping, and just about all of the cooking these days. I haven't cooked on the fly in a long, long time. I made some pies at Christmas and a meatloaf for The Zombie during his holiday break but both of those were planned events. This was a spontaneous meal. I can't remember the last time I had to pull a soup out of thin air on a random Sunday.
Actually, it was not a random Sunday. It was the biggest Sunday of the year and I was determined NOT to go to the supermarket on Superbowl Sunday in a small town. Hell no. I might still be in line if I did! This meant that I to use whatever ingredients we already had in stock and therefore couldn't follow my classic tried-and-true recipe. I was forced to improvise in the kitchen and I haven't done that in probably five years. Plus he is a chef now. How do you cook better or at least as good as a chef when you only cook a few times a year?
But this post is not about the soup. This is about the love note on the onion; my little get well stink doodle. Who writes a love note on an onion? Sassy. Who would think a love note on an onion is romantic? A sick chef.
I know at least one Steeple is bound to ask , so yes, the soup turned out great. In the end I guess the combination of watching him in the kitchen or watching a gazillion cooking shows with him imparted some knowledge of what not to do. Soup is not that difficult anyway so how bad could it be even if it was bad? It wasn't bad though. I was proud of myself for making it and he went to work feeling better. Must have been the secret ingredient: love.
(c) 2012, ACG
Puzzling Tea
The Magic Tea Cup spoke again over the weekend.
I don't know what this is. Looks sort of feline to me.
It's just too distinctive and well defined to dismiss as another blob.
But I don't know what else it is. Puzzle pieces maybe? A map?
I still think I see some kind of big cat face/head, so I dunno.
What do you see?
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Stink
This yoga model thing is turning into a regular gig. I just love saying it; I'm a yoga model. That's right, I'm a yoga model. I wish someone would ask me what I do so that I could answer, "I'm a writer, a runner, and a yoga model." It's enough to make me want to go to a high school reunion just for the chance to say it aloud and watch the reactions. Oh I'm doing well. I'm a yoga model now.
Our teacher has been begging for yoga self-portraits from the class each week but she isn't getting enough to satisfy her needs. Thursday night after class she asked three of us to stay and model some poses--a slender spiced chai goddess, a long statuesque classic goddess, and the short sassy goddess. This is one of my poses taken by the chai goddess but artistically dramatized by me for Language Art purposes. You would never know we were sweaty and flushed under the unflattering fluorescent glare of a dingy rackeball court, would you? I called it Yoga in the Shadows. I'm a yoga model. Hello, I'm a yoga model. Fondling...fondling...
Aaaahhh...the exquisiteness of being sore after a long race. I wonder if non-athletes can relate to this? Yes it hurts, but in a good way. It's an acknowledgement kind of pain; an affirmation kind of pain. I guess pain isn't even a good way to express it. Discomfort would be a better choice but the discomfort produces smiles of satisfaction because it affirms that you did something amazing with your body the day before. It doesn't hurt in the way that stubbing your toe hurts or throwing out your back hurts; it's a sweet hurt. That may not make sense to some folks but Sassy likes that creaky song that comes from her muscles the next day. It extends the joy of the activity just a little bit longer.
It did rain but only lightly at the beginning. After that it was just warm and humid and muddy for the 9.3 miles along the foggy river banks. Since the last five years have featured thunderstorms, flooding, ice/snow, or 50 mph wind gusts, this was the best weather for this race yet. I made three new friends along the course--two new club members I hadn't met before and a woman from another club who introduced herself because she always seems to be chasing me in to the finish throughout the year. When she asked my name I answered, "My name is Angela but everyone calls me Sassy." She exclaimed, "Oh! So you are SASSY!" I guess my reputation preceded me. (giggle) I like that song of recognition too.
I didn't race this race. I ran it as a long run with friends but since it was my longest run of the year so far it served as hard training nonetheless. It is generally my favorite race of the year so it also served as a rainy day adventure and of course socializing with that unique breed of people who think it's fun to go play in mud puddles. By the time I got home I had schmutz splattered halfway up my sore calves but that tends to also make me smile. Getting dirty is fun. When it is earned this way it is fun to stink. My only regret is that I had to leave a sick AppleJack at home. We usually stink it up all the way home together. Solo funk is cool but the double funk of two wet filthy river runners is even better. This is something that is just as difficult to explain as the good soreness--the good stink.
I think a kind of chemical communion happens to people who sweat joyfully together. The scent of dirt and exertion turns into an organic fragrance when it is shared. Somehow the sharing of the production of the stink makes it less of a stink. It magically stops being foul or repulsive and becomes familial and funny. Your brain says less "Get away!" and more "He/she is one of us!" Just like the day-after pain is a signal that you rocked your physical prowess, the just-after reek is a signal that you and the others you are smelling rocked a social boundary together. You dared to be gross together for a common goal. Using your bodies to do something amazing together created that stink. It may be difficult to understand but that sort of, well, smells good.
However, the stink does have an expiration. The magic of it being pleasant is relatively short. Right about the time the adrenaline high wears off and the body begins to cool and the belly begins to growl with hunger, the stink starts to stink again and it's time to tidy up. The stink being a hallmark of badassity will quickly turn to being just a hallmark of the unwashed past a certain point. The nose knows that point and then Poof! the spell is broken. Perhaps the fact that it is so short-lived is what makes it magical, just like The Blue Hour just before sunrise and just after sunset. It is a fleeting fondle.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Fun Friday
I'm keeping it light today. I have a race in the morning and it is supposed to rain buckets, as it usually does. My running buddies are taking me out for a belated birthday dinner tonight too so I just feel like playing today. I didn't have an Ugly Doll on hand but I did have my Chill Monster so we did a little office yoga. Here are the highlights of our desktop practice:
Ardha Matsyendrasana (Seated Twist)
Vasisthasana (Side Plank)
Ananda Balasana (Happy Baby)
Chaturanga (Staff Pose)
Adho Mukha Vrkasana (Headstand)
And a final relaxation with a cup of tea! Have a great weekend!
(c)2012, ACG
Fondling 40
The dawn of my 40th year was foggy and overcast. AppleJack and I rose early for a birthday run in the dark and woke every dog in the neighborhood. Hellraising seemed appropriate for the occasion even if it was unintentional. Cousin Leigha asked me yesterday if I was going to go out and do something young and dumb to celebrate the end of my youth. As I passed a sleeping house with about five yapping dogs throwing a fit in the living room window I figured I did something old and mean instead.
The first gift of the day was that AppleJack took the week off. The family texts started coming in as I got ready for work. When I got to work I found that my office had been converted to a temple. Black streamers hung from the doorway and the ceiling. The door bore signs heralding 40 and wishing me happiness. One sign read “With Age Comes Wisdom. That’s why we love our Sassyisms!” I thought this reference was just a clue that the decorators had been reading them and liked them. Well, yes and no. They had definitely read them but there was more to come on that.
I was given a pink sparkling tiara with marabou feathers to wear and a black ribbon to pin over my breast advertising my age. The floor was completely covered with balloons—black, yellow, and sassy grass green. My office chair had been converted into a silver throne. An altar was set up on one wall under banners wishing me more happiness. More black streamers hung in a canopy over my desk. On every wall were giant 40 signs and pithy sayings such as “OLD AS MOLD, “ “OLDER THAN DIRT,” “OVER THE HILL,” “If you were a car you’d be an antique!” and “What doesn’t hurt doesn’t work.” Everywhere the eye could rest was festooned with such a black sign and in the middle of my desk, spelled out in cupcakes with black icing letters, “Sassy is 40!.” This is why I didn’t notice the Sassyisms at first.
Then it hit me. There were white signs on the walls too. Holey buckets. The white signs were pieces of my writing! My coworkers had printed out the long list of my Sassyisms and passed it around. Everyone chose their favorites and then they were printed as signs and hung like pop art all around my desk. As soon as I noticed the first one I saw them all at once and my jaw dropped to my collarbone. For two heartbeats I thought I might cry but the glowing faces of my friends as they said “We picked our favorites!” was such a rush I quickly moved on to elation.
Then the parade began. One by one our clients came to my office and placed offerings on the altar. Packets of tea, candy, snacks, roses, and more cupcakes. Coworkers continued to bring in signs declaring me fierce and fabulous and 14,600 days old. Ugly Doll photos began to show up, including this one from my Dad.
The parade continued throughout the morning as clients came by with offerings for the altar and a hug. AppleJack had apparently been consulted for a list of my favorites so a basket on the altar slowly filled up with all my favorite things as the hours went by.
Then a parade of gifts began. A carrot cake to accompany the carrot cupcakes. A funny card. A magic wand. A suncatcher for my yoga room. A blessing ring. Vintage jewels from my co-dreamer’s grandmother. A tiny piece of handcrafted art that reads “A true friend hears the song in your heart and sings it back to you when you’ve forgotten it.” A one hour massage.
Just when I thought it was all slowing down came a bottle of Sassafras tea and a pink t-shirt with the proclamation Fine and Forty on one side and One Hot Mama on the other. Following that came the Top 40 hits of 1972 and palm-sized art prints tossed onto my desk like confetti. There was barely time to recover from that when a bouquet of paper daffodils arrived bearing a gift card for more tea.
When I came back from lunch even more clip art had been applied to my office, including a long list of celebrities born on my birthday and an exhaustive reference work all about the number 40. By the end of the day the basket on the altar was overflowing with treats as the clients kept pouring in one at a time with their offerings. One sang Happy Birthday to me and one brought me a handmade card with a house, a sun, her name, and the words Love You. On and on the parade went until it was time for the clients to board their buses and I was sure the festivities were finally over. Nope, not over.
As if all of that was not enough, my coworkers had all scoured the internet for inspirational quotes and pictures related to art, running, and yoga, and then made a handmade collage of them. They each chose pictures and quotes that said “Sassy” to them and then fastened them all to a board with vintage buttons. The entire collage was then framed for hanging and given to me as one final collaboration celebration. Or so I thought. After the clients had gone home for the day we cut the carrot cake and everyone came to sit crosslegged on the floor and have a little estrogen fest. Keep in mind that the entire floor was still covered with balloons.
After the cake was consumed we played a frenzied game of balloon volleyball with all the balloons at once until we were sweating and laughing and drawing a crowd in the hallway. To finish it off we all grabbed plastic forks and knives and then got down on our hands and knees to stab the balloons to death. It was an incredible day. I felt like I had been through some kind of Love Boot Camp. My face hurt from smiling so much. My brain could hardly hold it all. I drove home completely saturated with happy fatigue.
AppleJack had of course put his superior chef skills on display with a thai chili scallop crudo and fennel crusted ahi tuna with garlic aoli over lemon couscous. For dessert he made toasted coconut macaroons. Swoon. Wiggle. Swoon. Following dessert I learned that another massage had been procured for me and some seriously exotic gourmet tea from overseas had just cleared customs in the nick of time. After I was comfortably sated with an after-yonder glass of wine on the sofa the day was capped with calls from The Apples. The College Girl has just moved into her first apartment. The Zombie sent an Ugly Doll birthday-gram. I have said it before and I’ll say it again; Groundhog Eve is the absolute coolest birthday in the world.
As for turning 40 I am blown away by how much fun it all was. This was way more fun than turning 16, 18, 21, or 30. 40 feels delicious. It feels easier somehow; less angst, less crap, fewer ridiculous expectations of how things should be. It feels more appreciative and more intuitive. This feels much more “prime” than 25 or 35 did. I definitely feel less burdened and restricted than ever before. I have so much more satisfaction in life and with myself than ever before. The list of things that truly matter at 40 is a much shorter list and the items on that list are of a much higher quality. Friendships at 40 far exceed the frivolities of the younger years. Oh and by the way, sex is better at 40 than it was at 20, as is the food, the music, and the humor. As I said to a 35 year old woman who came by to see how I was dealing with turning 40, “I highly recommend it.”
© 2012, ACG
Fondling The Collective
Today's image in the Magic Tea Cup was a fish. Yesterday it was either a butterfly or a small horse, depending on which way I turned the cup. Both images are were too faint to bother photographing.
Did I mention that you and I share the same DNA even though we are not related by blood? Yes you. Our DNA, yours and mine, is 99.99% identical. Did I also mention that your genetic code is 99.99% identical to everyone else's code? Our cells--all of us--are 99.99% the same. The girl you love to hate, the boy who broke your heart, the criminal, the martyr, the celebrity, the nameless person you just passed in traffic, everyone with whom you've ever shaken hands; all 99.99% identical to you at a cellular level.
There is no Us and Them. We are all Us and we are all Them, down to 99.99% exactly the same. If you map our genetic code you find out there is more about us the same than different--overwhelmingly more. We are 99.99% the same and only .01% different.
Ancient philosophers say that we are only capable of recognizing faults or character flaws in other people because we bear those same flaws. The people we hate are actually mirroring what is already within us and our repulsion is our recognition of those ugly things. Otherwise we don't notice or at least don't have a strong emotional reaction them. In that vein, what you hate about someone else you only hate because that same thing exists within you. Same with the people you love or the things about people you love--you recognize and admire what is already within you. Since we are 99.99% identical under the hood it would seem a huge waste of time to bother singling out someone else for something we all share. Yet we do, and then think ourselves better for it.
Turns out we aren't better. We are the same.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Monday Doodle
It's been awhile since the doodle muse struck at The Jesus Crack House but when it does it makes things like this happen. Strange Fingerprints. Two versions, as usual; a simple one and a dramatic one. Toying with the idea that when something or someone touches your heart it usually leaves behind am imprint of some kind. Sometimes we forget where the fingerprints came from; sometimes they show up before we have their origins figured out but in either case it can only happen if our hearts are accessible.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Contrast
When I left the law firm and entered the non-profit world I discovered that one of my friends is also a relative. She started out as a running buddy and fellow yogini, then a close friend and confidante, and after all that connecting of our lives she turns out to be a cousin by marriage. I know, I know--way cool and probably no accident. We had no idea when we met years ago that one day we would be sharing so much: workplace, yoga class, running club, heart space, adoptive mothers of Ugly Dolls, and then the same family. When Christmas rolled around she lowered yet another blow to the mind. She's also an artist. Two painted canvases appeared in her office window in December. When inquiries were made regarding the charming artist she admitted to being the culprit behind our collective amazement. I bought one of her paintings to give as a gift and then before we broke for Christmas vacation she gave me a gift certificate for a commissioned painting of anything I wanted.
What I wanted was a yoga goddess for the pedestal in my home yoga studio. I gave her a starter design, specified how I wanted it customized, and then gave her all the time in the world to make it real. Last Thursday she finished that reality. The original design was so detail-rich that I thought I might be lucky to see half of it all rendered on the canvas she presented me. With a second blow to the mind she managed to include every detail--even my custom requests. I immediately went strong in the heart and weak in the knees with Wow. Art is such a powerful gift to receive. All I could think to do besides thank her and fawn over the exquisiteness of it was to share it so I took the painting to our yoga class that evening. I presented the painting to the class and encouraged all of our yoginis still practicing without a dedicated home space to use my painter/cousin/friend as an inspiration source, even if all they could find was a corner. Then I took my goddess home and placed her on her pedestal.
The very next day my neighbors cut down a huge tree that grew on our adjoining property line. While it was a gorgeous tulip magnolia that littered our lawns with pale pink confetti in the spring and shaded my house in the summer, it had to come down to facilitate the repair of some devastating drainage problems over on their property. The result is that my yoga room is now flooded with sunlight that used to be blocked by the tree. The windows on either side of the painting now blaze with fire in the afternoons as if the power of My Happy is emanating from all around her. You'll also notice she wears a divine crown. She has a starry leg and water leg indicative of her dream travels through time and she is equally balanced between earth (this world) and sky (spirit world), with life flowing like a conduit thriving on her connection between the two worlds. One light arm and one dark arm carry the gifts of embracing a sorrowed past and a fertile future. She sits calmly, casting a feminine pink aura, and then rests against a background of an even paler pink; the color it took me half a lifetime to accept.
Although I felt an instant Zing when I saw it, I didn't create this design. I found it while I was kicking over some rocks on the internet and she sang to me, one goddess to another. The artist of the original design is Nancy Vala and her design included a lotus blossom below the figure where mine says "My Happy." Nancy has a collection of designs over at Cafe Press that can be applied to lots of products like t-shirts, tote bags, and coffee mugs. This design was not available as a painting so it is actually the collaborative work of two artists--Nancy for the original digital work and my cousin for the reproduction by hand on canvas.
I asked to have the words "My Happy" included on my painting to remind me from where happiness comes--from me, from within, from the same place as my sadness and everything else I feel. It's a deep sentiment wrapped up in just those two words. If I meditated upon nothing else for the rest of my life this concept alone would be enough to keep me busy. Here is my perpetual reminder home on her pedestal draped with a vintage scarf from my mother-in-law's bottomless cedar chest and accompanied by my favorite empty vessels and Kathryn's crown. This is the west wall of my yoga room. You can see the bright new light through the windows reflected in the vessels and even a hint of my reflection as I photographed her. Eventually I will paint this room but for now there is plenty of color to stimulate me. Quintessential sassy.
Although I informed my cousin that I would be blogging about her painting I did not ask permission to use her real name. If you would like to commission a painting from my cousin I can put you in touch with her. I am obviously thrilled with the results and I feel confident that you would be too.
The energy return may be largely due to getting some rest and getting inspired by art but I would be remiss if I didn't also give credit to the wild game that was prepared as an offering to me by AppleJack. His creativity and resourcefulness in the culinary arts is surging. Growing his own produce and making pasta from scratch just wasn't enough. He is now curing his own meats and making his own sausage.
You know my big brown hairy weakness for wild game; it stands between me and vegetarianism like a hot wild streak running through my genetic code. There are indigenous ancestors somewhere back along my train track dancing around a fire and singing in lusty voices demanding my meaty attention. Last night I was given a wild duck sausage to fortify my energies. Over the last few months I have also been presented with homecured duck pancetta and proscuitto that dried on a nail in my pantry like a disembodied arm. He has also been pickling and brining and smoking everything under the winter sun. Tonight it was a spatchcocked native bird smoked over flame and I can feel my joints grow juicy with it.
Wild native food gives me a primitive kind of satisfaction. They spark all kinds of compulsions that include nakedness and moonlight and throaty calls in the night. Must be the Skystalker in me. Remember the Skystalker? I bet she has dirty bare feet and bruises just below her knees from jumping and landing and rolling over in the darkness. I bet she sometimes loses her voice and her fingernails and finds bent twigs in her hair. I bet her neck smells like salty feathers and the insides of her elbows are dusted with silt and pollen. I bet her hands are cold but the small of her back is warm and sweaty. I bet she paints the curves of her thighs with mud that swirls and runs abstract with the splashes of green river water and the press of evening dew. I remember the Skystalker. Kind of an interesting contrast to the yoga painting serenity I conjured up above, now isn't it? Well that's Sassy for ya.
Welcome to a new week, my friends. Fondle it--all of it.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Sassyism To Fondle
My latest Sassyism becomes my latest Language Art. Believe it or not this started out as a photo of my living room ceiling while I was laying on the floor stretching the fascia around my hipbones and experimenting with a new camera lens. The words came weeks and weeks later when I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open to type just one single sentence. But look at them together--my words and my art, born to be joined. I told you people if I could just get a little rest I could give you something special!
(c) 2012, ACG
Moon Tea
The Magic Tea Cup has delivered a new image today--the moon. Upon longer review I decided it could also be a fat dolphin. Moon feels most right though. Seems kind of comforting in light of how much I am craving rest this week!
A theory about why I am so exhausted this week surfaced over a morning meeting of what I like to call the Estrogen Cloister (a closed circle of familial women). It was suggested that I am tired because I am so tuned in to the folks around me who have had a particularly rough emotional week. While my week was hard in terms of physical labor those around me had to endure above-average stress and anxiety. I'm tired by association to them because my connections to them are so strong. Even if I am not directly involved in their problems I am affected by them by virtue of my constant spiritual connection (which is apparently involuntary now). Interesting theory. I hadn't considered that when I was mentally calculating what else might be wearing me out. So I guess this would be an appropriate time to resurrect the old Sassyism "You people make me tired."
Whatever the reason for my malaise I am keeping it short today in the interest of recharging and being able to bring you better blogging over the weekend. I have a big art feature to show you and I want to feel perky before I tackle it, so I'm off to fondle moderation for a few hours. Ta Ta.
(c) 2012, ACG
Sassy Lassate
For the second day in a row I am hitting the sheets feeling like a boiled noodle. Despite my heavy head I was compelled to check in and let you know that I'm too beat to write anything of substance but all is well. I've just worn myself completely out this week, that's all. At least there is a sense of accomplishment to make the fatigue worthwhile. I have been particularly productive, so pat, pat, pat on my tired back.
I'll be back as soon as I muster up some vim. Now I must fondle weariness.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Place To Be (Just Be)
Bella asked me to show her the place where I put my head down to rest, to sleep, to dream. She asked me to show her where I go to renew my spirit. Ironically, I find that I need to do all of these things in the mornings rather than the evenings so I have not actually shown a place where I sleep. I do, however, do all of those other things here. I have tea and light candles and greet the morning in my sock feet. I journal my dreams and treat myself well. I need to ease into the day so I practice being kind to myself first thing in the morning. Then I practice sunrise yoga to build inspiration for the day before I ever leave the house.
These old-school pillows were made from more of the fabric that came out of my mother-in-law's cedar chest after she died. My dear friend who finished off all of those ancient quilts crafted some bonus pillows out of this surplus fabric. Their soothing comfort cradles me awake as I slowly transition from sleep to yoga mat to bath and finally to work.
This is the first place I come as soon as I leave the bed in the morning and the last place I stay before returning to the bed at night. In the evenings I meditate here and read good things over chamomile and more candlelight. I put my College Girl to sleep here when she visits. I listen to the neighbor's dog barking good mornings or good evenings to my dog. I hear the morning and evening chimes from the belfry at the Catholic Church. I see the soft glow of daylight blooming or fading away. Sometimes I listen to Garth Stevenson and enjoy the sweetness of doing nothing. Renewing my spirit is an uncomplicated affair. There is no television or clock in the room; just four big pillows, a window, and the landscape of my mind.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Piece of Me in January
Since I played with the idea off and on through the month of November last year I decided to join Urban Muser's self-portrait journey in 2012. The theme for January is " a piece of me." All portraits have to include at least one part of my body. I can take as many self-portraits as I like in January with this theme. I've decided to try one a week and see how that goes. Then at the end of the month I share 'em all with the rest of the class.
Here's my starter portrait for Week 1:
Beautiful Shoulder
My portrait for Week 2:
Beautiful Thigh
My portrait for Week 3:
Beautiful Hand
My portrait for Week4:
Beautiful Neck
(c) 2012, ACG
Drinking From The Square Cup
Drinking from the square cup taught me something new. Sipping from the straight sides caused tiny bits of spillage where my round lips pursed against long edge. I found it difficult to drink so I turned the corner against my mouth and tried again.
Sipping from the corner wasn’t sipping at all. It was pouring. It was pouring the tea into me. It ceased to be me drinking a beverage from a vessel. I became the vessel and tea was poured to me as an offering--an offering to me, from me.
Now I see the act of eating and drinking as nurturing, not simply maintenance. I am no longer eating food. I am serving myself food. I am being filled with food. Each spoonful is a tiny offering from the part of me that supports my work to the part of me that performs my work. When I prepare the food or the tea I become an instrument of my work’s sustenance. When the food or tea is prepared for me I become a vessel to receive and be inspired by the offering—the work—of someone else.
I don’t see it as simple fuel for living anymore. I see it as one divine act supporting another. As we become willing vessels for offerings from ourselves or from others we may continue to fill others with our own unique offerings to them, and so on and so on. I offer myself tea to comfort and inspire so that you may be comforted and inspired by my words. As such, I become comforted and inspired by your appreciation, and so it goes.
It was just a sip of tea from a square cup—an avenue of wisdom that feels as old as the ritual of tea itself, yet freshly relevant to me as the grateful new bearer.
(c) 2012, ACG
Skinny Finger Tree
The angle of the earth to the sun has finally shifted enough that I make it home just before the sun sets. When I leave my office the sun is flirting with the horizon and making a spectacle of sinking out of sight. Instead of photographing yet another breathtaking sunset mural I have begun to turn away from the sun and look at the face of other things in the fading light; sort of watching the rest of the earth watch the sun set. It's similar to watching someone's face as they are watching something else. Observing the observer, if you will. I used to love to do this as a kid in church. I would wait until deep into the sermon to turn around and take a peek at the congregation behind me. I used to do it in movie theatres too but folks find it a bit unnerving when they catch me.
It's not really the same as watching someone sleep; that's a completely different observance. Watching someone watching/listening without seeing me do it is immeasurably intriguing to me. I've seen things in their faces and body language that surprised me. Anyway, as I was leaving work the other night I was doing my usual turnabout from the sunset and saw this tree at the edge of the parking lot. I had already started the car but the image of the skinny little fingers of this tree against the sky made me turn the engine off, get out, grab the camera, and make it art.
The sunset that day was lavender. As many times as I had noticed the sun setting I had never noticed this funky little tree though I pass it every day. Instead of having many branches it just has these few but then there all these tendril branches covering them like reef coral or twining veins. They are very stiff and wiry but in silhouette against the sky they look almost wispy. It is also one of those trees that grew up right on the fence line so it has slowly become part of the fence. Without its leaves it looks like a skinny evening sentinel at his post. Every day since I took these pictures my eyes now seek out the funny tree first when I leave for the evening. The sunset comes after.
I called it The Skinny Finger Tree because I imagined it reaching out in the dwindling sunlight to catch the last bit of warmth the way we extend our hands toward a fire to warm them. Today The Skinny Finger Tree is wearing a cape of fog and we can't feel the sun at all. Yesterday I was sweating through my dress after my lunch hour run but not today. Today the cold is seeping up through the concrete to clutch at my feet while my back and shoulders pulse with the effort of last night's yoga. I feel as stiff as The Skinny Finger Tree but there is a warm core beneath that is longing to be stoked with bowls of beans and silky cheese. I am resting today and pressing fluffy things against me with skinny tree fingers until I can feel those veins of heat reaching down to my feet and hands. Enjoy your weekend, my friends.
(c) 2012, ACG
Pointy Arrow Tea
The Magic Tea Cup delivered a new image this morning after two days of blobs. My first thought was Arrow, as in keep going, move forward, or maybe even look up. I suppose it could also be a mushroom or a tree, or maybe it's nothing at all.
Another dream connection to the real world occured yesterday. I dreamed a worry that a woman I know would commit suicide on the same night she woke up with a medical problem that made her afraid she was going to die. See the Dream Diary for the details. I am not going to divulge the nature of her medical problem for privacy reasons but I will say that if I woke up to similar conditions I would probably also fear for my life. There were also three occurrences of the number three involved. Now that I think about it, the Ugly Doll that I have her is Pointy Max--an arrow-shaped doll. Click to see him. Interesting connections here.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Palette of Release
It is Wednesday and that means Work On My Novel day. If there is extra time for extra writing I will be supplementing with more sass this evening but for now I will get the day started by fulfilling Bella's request for a photo of color that stirs up emotion. This was irresistible to me! You can be white with fright or white in a blinding rage--take your pick. Either way, this little Chill Monster makes me grin back at his snaggle-toothed stitches because for me, he evokes mirth.
He was a Christmas gift. Since he came with an icicle-covered coffee mug, I think he was supposed to chase away the chill. I prefer to think of him as chasing away stress when I need to chill the hell out. That's why he lives at work, just over my shoulder. He reminds of how I must look or even how I might be acting when I'm stressed out--like a monster. Alternatively, he prevents me from getting that far by signaling that it's time to chill now. So if "chilling out" has a color, I am calling it white. Calm before storm white. Calm after venting white. Like the kind of tired you are after laughing really, really hard or throwing a tantrum. Like the kind of drained you are after dealing gracefully with really hairy day. Like the kind of serenity you seek before letting things get out of hand. Get it?
(c) 2012, ACG
Black Arts and Yoga Farts
Now then, regarding me being a devil worshipper by virtue of practicing yoga, I am channeling a Monty Python level of disdain and snort in your general direction. Trust me, you don't want the full Monty (that's fart, for those of you who didn't get it.)
I have a friend who recently tried yoga. She has been bothered by recurring shoulder pain and was on the fast track to some major surgery for pain relief. She decided to try a yoga class and was delighted to find that after only one class she experienced immediate pain relief and improved range of motion. When she mentioned it the next day at church (to thank and praise God for the relief) she was strongly cautioned by her fellow church members not to mess around with "that yoga stuff" because it is a cult in disguise and eventually leads to devil worship. Sigh. So sitting in church and praying for 35 years didn't help her shoulder but one yoga class did? Hmm...not supposed to work that way, now is it? I guess that's why it must be something evil.
A cult of non-violent, non-judgmental, barefoot people who bend and breathe; that's absolutely genius. I wish I had thought of it first. We sucker them in with pain relief. We trick them into a joining a cult by relieving their pain, boosting overall health, improving flexibility, and making them feel more peaceful and balanced. Nailed us cold. We are now fully exposed as a cult of--what?--happy people? God forbid. One thing is for sure though--when you go to a yoga class you'll never hear anyone tell you to stop attending your church. We must be a truly subversive cult if we are willing to let you keep your traditional faith while concurrently trying to turn you into--what?--a healthier person? It never gets old; the only folks who find church and the benefits of yoga mutually exclusive are the church folk, yet yoga is the cult. Sigh.
People are afraid of what they don't understand so everything unknown gets lumped together with the known dangers. I guess it's better to be safe than smart (or at least better informed), and while we are at it we might as well condemn what we don't understand just to be extra safe. It's also easier to spread rumors and misinformation than it is to do some actual research, and as all church ladies know, the juicier the gossip the better it spreads. Devil worshippers get better press than peace mongers and all religions can agree that thin/healthy/fit people are way more fun to hate anyway, right?
I've got a news flash for all of the Redeemed: Yoga has no end game. There is no benefit to "converting" you to yoga except your own improved health and well-being. We get nothing if you start practicing, except maybe happier and healthier friends. You breathe, you bend, you repeat. That's it. You practice, you get better, you bend further and breathe deeper. That's it. In a clinic it's called physical therapy. In an aerobics class it's called warming up or cooling down. Isn't it interesting that your soul is never in jeopardy in either of those venues but move the same activity to a yoga studio and suddenly it's a cult? Why? Misinformation--the church ladies might have been well-meaning but they were wrong.
Feeling better doesn't change your religion any more than catching a cold changes your religion. It is completely possible to be a church-going, tithe-paying, prayer-saying Christian and still practice yoga. My current yoga class is full of them (Christians), including my Baptist instructor. In fact, I'm probably the only one in class who isn't a Christian and as I have said many times, I have been outnumbered by Christians in every yoga class I've taken for the last ten years. No one worships anything in my yoga class. If they did you can bet that I--the nonbeliever--would leave. Imagine that. This must be one dandy cult if even the heathens would leave at the first sign of devil worship.
I've met Satan. (It's true.) He doesn't practice yoga. If he did practice yoga the Christian churches would probably find themselves out of an adversary. As it is, yoga is counter-productive for Satan because it promotes all the wrong things for a Satanic agenda. Even without being a devil I know that it is super-difficult to cause mass suffering and worldwide damnation while promoting/practicing peace, gratitude, and harmony in a judgment-free non-competitive environment. Maybe it can be done but I doubt Satan would bother with the yogis. Odds are your soul is safer in yoga class than just about anywhere outside your church. That is, unless you insist on bringing him with you.
(c) 2012, ACG
Number Three Tea
I won't have to time to blog about this until later in the day but I wanted you all to see what appeared in the Magic Tea Cup this morning. I have a meeting coming up and need a cup of tea before it begins, so I snapped this quickly before the day starts rolling. No imagination required for this one--clearly a Number Three! Don't know what it means (if anything) but I'm delighted to find another clear image! Happy Monday all, I'll be back later!
(c) 2012, ACG
