To the future.

Yesterday, 12/30/2010 was a huge day. Not for me in particular, but for the world. My guess is that this day was like any other day, ordinary and yet extraordinary all at the same time. A secret was let loose to the United States of America, a message unraveling extensive unity for the world, its establishment of refreshing peace, and by God, hope brothers and sisters, HOPE. I have my unending issues and trials to mire the ignorance within me almost constantly. It hurts me to see the way we live, so haphazardly, so unconsciously, without realizing our ordinary, daily, simple choices deeply, deeply matter and infinitely affect the world around us. So when a secret of such is made known, ripened to the ears and hearts of those around, knowing in the solace and yet joining of our souls, that the celebration of life is, actually, resounding.

In April 2009, President Obama daringly projected a proposal to not only attain a treaty with Russia concealing nuclear weaponry, but to secure all vulnerable nuclear material within four years. Let me repeat this with a bit more clarity, Obama is aiming at taking every created and established form of nuclear material TO BE SECURED, MAINTAINED AND LOCKED DOWN WITH SECURITY. (Using all caps just to reemphasize the balls-iness of this proposal). On December 30, 2010, over 100+ lbs of uranium was removed from the territory of Ukraine and brought securely to a maintained location. This material is enough to detonate two large nuclear bombs. Now why would a nation who put endless remarkable time and energy in obtaining this material be willing to oblige to its removal? Yes, there is recognition that this material is harmful. Derr. Ukraine committed itself to the international committee last year. Really, though, what's at the heart of their willingness? Don't they want the power and control of national protection? Quite possibly, as part of the international committee, an understanding that the fewer places this material is located, the better off the world is. Too simple? Too ideal? Obama helped to initiate the bringing together of 46 countries to address this global issue at the Nuclear Security Summit awhile back this year. The majority of nuclear material is dispersed in 35 countries around the world. 19 countries have been secured. 16 more countries to go. The goal at hand to bring it back to the United States and Russia where it began and secure, protect this material. This is all held in secret, due to the intense potency of such material.

This is huge. Even when I went to bed that night, my crazy 50 yr old roommate came home at 3 am to wake me up, make sure I had heard the news. She hugged me, we high-fived, and then she said, "The shit is happening, Beth!" The shit is happening. And it is some paramount, awesome shit.

There is just one word I can sense in a way that some how streams forth the essence of this great achievement: COMMITMENT--not as an obstinate trait to persevere towards a goal. But this is bigger, largely encompassing in a greater capacity. This is commitment to collaboration. Bipartisan feelings and opinions are put aside. Nationalistic pride at ease. General dialogue arises, and globally, our minds are activated. We see each other, our nations, our world, on a larger scale. In the United States, I think there has been a impending reminder that a representative democracy implies that our government is a vessel to reflect the values of its people, the values hidden at the heart of its people. Obama happened to bring about beginning of this proposal to conceal vulnerable nuclear material. But who really was responsible for this initiation, this coming of time and ultimately, peace?

Maybe it was the widow down the street who had fostered 46 children from various areas of the U.S. Maybe it was the young couple who welcomed people onto their farm to learn to live sustainably in mindful actions of the Earth and its future. Maybe it was the prayer group that met for five hours every week to pray for the needs of its community. Maybe it was the nontraditional student who awakened at 3 am to study six languages, so dialogue and understanding between cultures could be created. Maybe it was the Peace Corps volunteer in Russia whose heart was to live amidst the youth of this culture, encourage their hearts and build relations. Maybe it was the guitar player whose lyrics brought messages of justice, messages reiterating the importance of human rights. Maybe it was the writer who challenged the people to awaken to consciousness. Maybe it was the young, wild at heart girl who built an interactive community of kids from all different socioeconomic classes to play and learn together. Maybe it was the math teacher at an high school who went to each of his kid's football games, encouraging and mentoring them through their journeys of life.

At the heart of these people, it all began. The commitment of ordinary, global citizens all over the world to see with open eyes. To seek justice in the community. To invest life in another. To see past the self. To commit to a life that exceeds one bottled up of little comforts and luxuries. Our communities make up our world. The local and national governments are continually changing, erupting new policies to further aid the changing times. I say with great earnesty: the responsibility is ours. Let me say again, THE RESPONSIBILITY IS OURS. And I say to you with great encouragement, participate collectively in the experience. Think and act mindfully. Engage in the world wholeheartedly. The ordinary is where the future of the common good of man exists. May this be our gift to the future.

No Name Blog Entry.

Snow. Beautiful glistening snow here in Appalachia. I don't know how or why, but every time I step out from my front porch into it's softly flowing serenity, I sniff the air only to hear in my mind the smooth, suave voice of Michael Jackson speaking to me, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." I giggle a bit, questioning why I hear Michael Jackson's voice so vivid, so audible. I find that I don't really even like that word, SNOW. Too bland. I think I'd rather like to call it "Feather dust." Much more fitting as to its actual substance, rather than what it appears to be.

That bastard of procrastination has crept up on me these past few months. And with the weather as it is, nasty habits of having me rush everywhere seem inevitably dangerous. Just the other day, I was running late to dinner, and just as I approached the driveway, I wiped out on a mighty large piece of ice. Busted it. I went into work the next day with a torturous ache. I was explaining my fall to a fellow staff member, how I laid in the ground after slipping and just enjoyed trying to eat the feather dust ("snow") with no hands, and how tasty it was. She stopped her fidgeting with an oxygen mask, suddenly narrowed her look at me and breathed that "sigh" breath. I got nervous. Was I rambling? Was I telling one of those dumb stories that she doesn't care about when she is trying to look and act like she does? Her pause as she looked at me seemed to transcend time and elapse through me an entire lifetime. "Let me ask you something, Beth," she framed. Still, though feeling vulnerable, no detection was made whether an unsuspected wrath was coming or a crude shriek of humor. "Yeah?" I hesitated. "You're fresh out aren't you?" Baffled, I had no clue. "Fresh out of what?" I replied. She retorted, "I could smell you from a mile away. You're fresh out of school. Newbie to life." What the crap was this lady talking about? Quickly, still in her presence, I tried to recap our short-lived interaction to see what in the world would give her leeway that I was "fresh out." Should I be offended? Pissed? Laugh as if it was funny? She began to exit to leave the room when I grabbed her arm and said, "I'm sorry but what do mean 'newbie to life?'" She cracked a side smile, one that was cocked with half-ass sincerity, "Oh, you'll get it when you're my age." No offense to her, but I didn't feel like waiting 30 years to figure out why falling on a piece of ice and eating snow somehow generalized me as a "newbie to life." I'm 23 years old, and by God, if something has not throbbed my soul and heartbeat, I need to check my pulse. Over and over and over again. I tried to brush off my irritation with the whole engagement, but I was left hauntingly ailed within. Number one, I hate being generalized, but number two, what kind of characteristics did she think being "fresh out" entails? Ignorance? Arrogance? Naivety? Lack of experience? All of the above? Pissed. Yes pissed I became.

So, at first, thought wreaked havoc on my mind. Yes, school gave me unequivocal amounts of knowledge, all enabling memorization and accumulation of facts. I knew things. Great. Grand. Exciting things to know. Doesn't mean jack squat though if not somehow put to life. But the outward journeys to Oregon, New Mexico and now West Virginia, paralleled with new discoveries inwardly, was, subconsciously, an attempt to let the real education happen. No preconceptions to life--however it was suppose to happen. Meet people, love people, give to these people, respect and cherish the God in these people, live life with these people amidst all our differences. To let creative streams flow with the most enchanting form of creativity:learning, and to do so together. Experience. Knowledge with experience breeds wisdom. From all this experience, I had to come to an honest grip and understanding of the nature of my hungers. I remember one night in Oregon I wrote down in closing to my journal-- in question of my time there-- open-ended, unanswered. "Do I have a hunger to love? Or just a love to hunger?" Maybe this is what the conversation with the respiratory therapist was to bring out, to assess my thoughts and experience, or rather my lack thereof.

Human hunger. In all its forms. These driving appetites surface all the time. But what to do with them? The physical hunger-- the need to survive with sweet nourishment. Social hunger in deepest desire of community, of understanding, care, love. Emotional hunger-- to be known. Affirmed. Accepted as designed. Mental hunger-- to be intellectually stimulated. Sexual hunger-- suppressed or not-- to know someone intimately as humanly possible. And then I think why do any of these hungers even have to be categorized? One simple hunger pervades all: the hunger of the soul.

And then I go back to the dreams embedded in the memory. Longing for adventure. The unknown. To explore without inhibition. The dreams always wanting themselves to somehow be "attained." Attain. Attain. Attain. Go. Go. Go. Strive. Strive. Strive. We're too concrete-minded as a society. Something does not have to be felt to be real. What I think I really hunger is not just attaining the dream, but in essence, we hope that the dream will somehow deliver its ultimate fulfillment. What was that hunger of the soul yearning for? Intangible, but recognizable. Felt, though indefinable. Verbalized and narrowed, though inexact. With the radio music on, an old Christmas carol of long ago sang soft melodies into my heart as I listened, "I wander as I wonder out under the sky..." Yes, yes of course. WONDER. The enchanting reality of wonder to take us over. and over, and over, again. As human beings open to God: To wonder, to behold, to forget the self and offer it up, this, yes this, is WORSHIP.

There is no conceptual mind to wonder. In the perpetual rest of the human heart, it fully and wholly exists. As the permanence of changing takes hold, I don't care if I am a newbie to life forever as the wonder permeates my soul as stages and experiences of life build on and from one another.

Think about this time of year. Next Saturday, beloved Christmas, the movie that has been playing for over decades will shine itself again on the television screen. Many, like my dad, will eagerly await its showing. It'll probably be his 100+ time seeing it. Doesn't matter. It's a chance to remember, to behold, to see, to watch, and to never, never forget. Cheers to life. Cheers to "It's a Wonderful Life."

Today. It all starts today.

I started working nights a few months back and other than the whole zombie-feeling and decay of any lucid thinking, I don't feel entirely thrown off the bucket or floppy as a fish. Though, I must admit, my earnest cravings and deepest deprivation lies in missing out on the morning experience. The morning, being well rested, when the new, fresh air invades the nares, reminding the soul that today new possibilities exist to which all shortcomings and blessings can be celebrated. The pursuit of life and love in the human process is possible.

Today, I was reminded. Last night was a night from hell. I tried to prove my competency by moving 300-lb patients by myself and then having to catch them as they fell, placing patient by patient on and off the bedpan, and hoping for once, I wouldn't spill the pee or shit all over the patient as we wiggled our way around to clean up. For once, I didn't want to have to ask for help on how to perform or forget to do a simple, but essential, task. I was tired, achey, and the patience meter was shot. Nothing. I was tired of meeting the needs of these people, both large and small. Why wouldn't they just be okay for awhile? Why did I have to ask myself, "Where the hell are you, compassion? Please, arrive pronto." I was behind on everything I had to do, and wanted to escape in any way possible.

Finally, thirty minutes after I was to give report, I was helping one last patient off the bedpan who had wet her whole bed and needed to be changed, when it arrived. I glanced out the window in hopes to escape for a mere second, and there existed and shown with great glory, an intricately layered sunrise, full and promising, glistening in such intensity that I stood aback, jaw-dropped. I took the bedpan in my hand and sat on the floor of the room, repeating, "Oh my..." The room I was in was a four bed ward (major old-timey hospital) that had four beds with four different patients. As soon as I sat down, one sweet lady came over from bed 2 and said, "Honey, you okay??? What is it?" All the patients but the one bed-ridden patient got up, and made their way over to the window to see. "Whoa...." one of them droned out.

There, in that instant, we proceeded past ourselves, past our own individual achey-ness, both different and alike, our mishaps, our human hunger as well as human sorrow, and were somehow, strangely standing on holy ground. We were sharing the beautiful, vastly expansive gift of life, and we all had an understanding of the healing to our souls in that instant. Not just the sunrise, but the precious communion to which the sunrise provoked.

Maybe our faith in God and life and Jesus or whatever animates the spark of life within us, compels us to behold the thought that everything we have is a gift to be shared with others, being the sunrise or the patient's shit we both encounter as we continually give and receive. Maybe we breathe and look and feel so that our lives should be spent in loving those around us, and that every sunrise, sunset, mountaintop, a petty need or request, or late-night exchange of laughter is the greatest damn thing that could ever happen to us. Just maybe the holy ground isn't reserved for the churches or the shrines or the temples, but maybe the holy ground exists as all ground, where feet and hearts alike, find themselves at home.

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness; touch, taste, smell your way into the holy and hidden heart of it all because in the last analysis, all moments are key moments, and life, itself, is grace." -Frederick Buechner

Little betty. Big Appalachia.

Today—October 3, 2010. I write. On this here laptop. In my little apartment. In Appalachia amidst small town Beckley, West Virginia.

I once read or overheard or totally imagined the phrase that the only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself. Thank God the heart knows no bounds, nor the conflicts to which it can become entangled. Thereby saying, I have strong and earnest wants not to write, but like the poor little stray cat outside my door that beckons my heart to rescue him from the cold, I write to rescue--to salvage my memory to some avail. Yet, funny how it all orchestrates—I don’t really ever rescue the cat, but the cat frees me and I never write to rescue my fleeting thoughts, but my thoughts, once written, somehow let loose the mind to color outside the lines. So, without hesitancy, I take heed in my attempt to color wildly.

Well, dear ole Appalachia done gone stolen my dear little pumpkin heart. I must say, I’ve excelled quite a bit more than I had anticipated in learning the language here. Here are a few learned translations so far:

“She done went and got the sugar”: She is diabetic.

“Now hunee do right for me now with dat der pee-la.”: Fix my pillow now before I bitch slap you, fool.

“Oh lawd have merr-seeee, I can’t stand it”: It’s time for you to hurry up and fetch my pain medication.

“She done had one of her kids out”: One of her kidneys failed and was removed.

There were a few more but I fail to recollect them currently. Each person I have encountered has somehow enlivened me with his/her streams of character that come rolling out, each in a manner worthy of remembrance. Just the other day I had a patient who had come in with a couple of fractured ribs and possible fractured femur. Upon extracting from her what had brought about her current condition, this is how the frail, small-framed, old woman with fiery, lit eyes responded, “ I tail you what, I ne’er believed such a thang in my whole damn life, I was looking for one of those thar clippings that you hang on your dawr to scare dem kids at Halloween, and I was’a passin the end of da aisle der with my buggy, and some hurryin ladee was speedin in her buggy and damn ran straight into my side—oh lawd, dat der buggy hurt me almost to death.” After letting the words from her mouth be absorbed in my temporal lobe to process this incident, all I could do was envision this occurrence taking place in the ever infamous Wal-mart. And goodness, I so highly respect these individuals for their raw honesty, well, more like their hostile honesty. But if they think something, you bet yourself damn straight you will hear it. These are their lives, the way that they live and be and thrive, and to be a part of their experience and seek life together with these wise elders of Appalachia bids me no higher privilege.

And the nurses I collaborate with are extraordinary. They all have their crazy entwined family dynamics and dysfunctional familiarities that I feel such a warm spirit of humanness and welcomed with all my funky facets and impromptu caprices. One of the nurses informed me of having an anxiety attack on my behalf—since I came here to West Virginia not knowing anyone and was okay with that. No one verbalized their thoughts, but I could see in their faces how only a pure pagan would leave her family to encounter a world of unknown. Also, many were enthralled with my eating habits after introducing them to “quinoa” and sharing it with everyone.”Whoaaaa…” they said with a new sparkle in their eyes. You would have thought they had just discovered a rare diamond of sorts. Often, they tend to categorize me as one of those “earthy girls” since one time, after asking me what my favorite pastime was, I quickly exclaimed, “Oh I love to skip through the forest and meet with the wind!” They didn’t chuckle, they down right heaved and hoed at my forest fanciness. They thought it was hilariously odd, while I took a tender delight in knowing that the forest had become a common home to my heart.

And people from the hippie town nearby retorted and exclaimed in horror how Beckley is a soul-sucking hellhole, but how can anyone discard a community of people? Just due to their differences? There is rich life amidst this community. Discarding a community is like discarding a three-legged dog to the streetside--purely heartless in every regard. Every bit of me wants to sit down those damn prideful hippies and maybe we could watch Pocahontas together. As it is, it is an ever-reoccurring theme. When will we learn? I love the cycle of life, but I hate the accepted, apathetic ignorant-surged opinions that continue to further our separations as humans.

Often friends and family call to inquire of my current condition, ensure that I am happy here, and then creep up the bravery to ask the haunting and opposed but forced question of whether I am lonesome or not. I tell them I don’t know--that if what I feel often is lonesomeness, I don’t think it is wrong or bad or terrible feeling. It just comes and goes as a cloud floats by—some fluffy and bright, and some heavy, tormenting with exalting rains, but lovely in its passing. Why yes, God sure does get the uncanny view in seeing us process and progress. I can only imagine that it must be some kind of sight. But more often than not, I tell them when I am not in the hospital, I am out exploring. Ever since the dream encounters I had while in Oregon, I have held an insatiable drive and want and blood-firing fuel raging to explore the unknown. Here exist the rolling hills, the trees, the rivers, the leaves, the hanging rocks, all waiting to be fully known by every embodied soul alive. Out in Oregon I didn’t understand my craving for the howling wind, for the tuning melodies of the western tanager, for the chorus of dancers in the blades of grass, and the strange, glistening peculiarity of design in each sprawling flower petal.

But, for once, I had come to a most generous revelation of my surrounding kin. Here, with everything that took forth breath and my tunnel of spiraling imagination I went back to when I was just six years old. We had just bought 50 acres in West Georgia and my father was gleaming, highed, awed, and heightened in his purest adoration for the Earth as he called me over, hurriedly. “Beth, beth, come see this!” With calloused and wrinkled hands he grabbed my arms and sat them close to his. Leaning and kneeling on my bare knees, I watched as my father earnestly dug with the nails of his hands and the fortitude of his forearms into the sun-beamed ground. His excitement was contagious. I could hardly await the discovery. Finally he scooped out some large quantity and sat back as fragments of soil, clay, pure particles of mystery churned between his fingertips and dripped back onto the ground. He grabbed my wrist, squinted his eyes and spoke softly, “Beth, I want you to feel this dirt. Really feel the dirt; feel the dirt, be the dirt.” Like any adventure-seeking, wild-eyed six year-old, I yearned to be engrossed in the splendor of such an ordinary artifact. And to be the dirt, whatever that meant in the grown up figurative language, I so greatly wanted to absorb the dirt’s being.

Though the dirt didn’t provide the life, it was a mighty force and factor in life’s activation. Life pulsated itself from dirt and the cycle would one day return itself to it. But undoubtedly I was instilled with this all-encompassing reverence for dirt, a sustainable producer to life, at my small age. This reverence was what awakened out in Oregon--- an expansive heartache for my family—my family that came from dirt and all the creatures that expanded the heavens and earth—and all inexplicably deserving of veneration and care. The woodpecker, the rhonedendron, the madrones, the zinnas, the butternut squash, the silly trout, the human beings. Something mighty has burst through into us. And somehow we are all in it together. Finally, I had recognized other members of my family, each with a language of their own and a character of their own--each to know, to delight in, embrace and seek out amidst our days together.

I want to sing the hymns of the birds, dance with the rhythms of the tree branches, light up with the lightning bugs, churp back with the crickets. I want to communicate as an embodied soul, who can’t help but leap for pure joy at the very recognition of my own kin.

Extreme encounter.

Hitting up the big life in NM-- meeting new friends that crawl, jumping on the trampoline, hunting for mushrooms-- the regular life that most ordinarily exists out here. But prior to coming to NM from Oregon, I met a dear friend with whom I had always dreamed of encountering. And right before I departed, we incidentally collided. It was an extreme encounter. So, I share a little jingle-- a little jangle-- in his (or perhaps her) honor:

Twas a washin my face and a cleanin the skin
With my contacts out and the shutter came again
I clenched my arms and squinched my eyes
Who was that a twattin outside the outhouse door?
Trying to tank on in-- in some form of disguise?

Then I saw those five curled toes that clutched the door
I heard not a sound, but I could hear the roar--
Yes, the roar of the wild trying to see
What did you want?? What!! You wanted to greet me?

I grabbed the jutted edge of the door and opened with a swing
To see your tiny head poking out-- while dressed in a white and black coating
As you, wide-eyed and scared, gazed daringly into my face
And I grinned and in shock attempted not to hyperventilate!

Excited! Excited! I wanted to squeeze your little being
For so long I had wished and prayed your arrival
And not to my dismay, you came so blissfully!
But you stayed not so long--as I held my arms open wide-- ready to embrace.
But oh no! You turned, lifted that fluffy tail,
And caused me to hesitate.

Time paused as I awaited blindly for your stench of fear.
But you lifted that tail and glanced back, saying,
"Beth, today, I got no stank for you in my rear."
Then he scurried into the woods to venture into the night
Leaving me peacefully in the bathroom-- with no stink and no fright.





Stinkin and a stunk-in? Or a'smellin' a dear skunk-in?

Bub, bub, BUBBLES

A couple of days ago I spent approximately one-half of an entire day with bubbles. They are fascinating little spheres of air and soapiness that spur on such trivial happiness. And given my inuitive analysis and far-fetched relation to such things, here are my conclusions:

Ironically, life is just a bunch of bubbly bubbles. Sometimes people and places provide fresh, fragrant smelling soap and allow me to create big new bubbles. This is exciting...they grow and they grow and the splendor of their enormity slams me. And then sometimes I just spend all my days hopping from one slippery bubble to the next. Falling, yes, but the hopping is such energizing vitality! But then some little punk ass kid comes along and sees to it hilarious to burst my beautiful creation, leaving only me really knowing and treasuring the growth of such ornate beauty. Then, regretfully, sometimes all the bubbles burst by some air-raiding, bubble-popping monster. Bitter, yes, bitter, I become. Spoiled, yes, how spoiled I am--to have been such a benefactor of such things. Then with high hopes I stringently search the vast skies in hopes of some prized bubble to cling to, to hop upon. Nothing. A damned emptiness of bubbles. Then a thought comes over me. Yes, yes, I have a strong inclination that there are more bubbles. Simply put, though, I have not the eyes nor the heart yet to see or create them. The bubbles will come, yes, both small and finite, and yet also deep, expansive and encompassing...just as I will come along, so will they. Yes, so will they.

Ain't No Reason Things Are This Way

"There ain't no reason things are this way.
It’s how they always been and they intend to stay.
I can't explain why we live this way, we do it everyday."

When I first heard this song, I immediately reacted, "Oh yeah, great song. Great lyrics." Ironically, though, I heard the song, entitled it as "awesome", explained it to others how awesome it is, how it speaks truth, and then I returned to "live this way, we do it every day." No explanation for why life is the way that it is-- and certainly no explanation for why we do what we do. Ain't no reason...if I can't explain it, then why not write a note of observation in light of it? I cannot decide whether this song is illuminating, or if I think it's a shrewd mound of horse shit. Quite possibly a combination of both.

Since graduating and gratefully transitioning out of the "studying portal" that had encompassed me, I vowed to research and collectively attempt to understand how the crap society got to where it is today-- lest not answering the question, but consequently exploring the process of our current state.

I think a pivotal point in my search was one night I was laying in bed, listening to Bill Moyers and heard that in the last 2008 presidential election, the financial industry spent a riveting 400 billion dollars on lobbying for specific congressional candidates and elections. $400 BILLION dollars. I was astounded, and wondered what might be the monetary means to feed the world's hungry and provide clean drinking water. I found my results. According to the United Nations Human Development Report, $80 MILLION would grant access to clean water, food, social services, and education to the world's poor for TEN years.

What? Really? Unbelievable, I thought. I could not refrain myself from acting out my anger (Books thrown at the wall again. My sincere apologies dearest wall). I know we care about the world, despite the disproportional distribution of wealth. We do care, but why do we repress the pain that would enable us to exponentially care for the world? We experience the pain, the horror, the dreadfulness of our present day. They're familiar feelings. Deep in our hearts, we understand the essence of compassion: that there is no peace in me until there is a peace for you as well. The pain of the world-- imparted and experienced by each one of us. The urge of compassion is essential to our existence while the relations we make with people and the Earth reach a deeper level of understanding. The pain in itself is disheartening, but serves a purposeful motion to trigger forth some remedial action. Just like a body that suffers physical pain requires immediate attention and nurturing, so too a thorough, generalized pain in our world indicates an opportunity to heal, and to do so together. Pain for the world is not the enemy that hurts us, but our willingness to frivolously discard and dull its existing presence. Unless we deeply experience this pain and forgo repressing it, we may not generate any substantial healing that is capable of happening.

My intention in writing this is to get to the root of why we don't care. Or why I don't care. Or, not that we don't care, but honestly, we don't care to let the pain engross us to again, generate any way of life different than we know. "It's how they always been and how they intend to stay." Mentally, we have been disfigured entirely. All these are fears, ones I have faced and still fight. Others I've read about and compiled here:

1. Fear of the actual pain itself. Got pain? Pop that there pill. Remedies are instant and easy, haven't you heard? If you let the pain get to you too much, it may affect your ability to cope with daily life. That pain could make you fall apart and worst of all, make you a MESS.

2. Fear that the despair will utterly consume us, making us ineffective in reasoning why such things are happening. Will such despair destroy my faith as I know it-- scared that my faith will be deemed as inadequate?

3. Fear of the appearance of despair. Smile brightly. You are on the road to success...you are in the United States of America...turn that frown upside down! The feelings of this pain are thought of as lagging confidence and a lack of hope and general perseverence. We immediately endorse and respond with doctrinal messages of hope that inwardly call us to press on--- but are we resorting to an instantaneous form of remedy that thwarts our path to really experiencing the pain?

4. Fear of the "smart people". Frankly, I am terrified and sometimes extremely timid toward the more informed intellectuals who are sharply educated on the social issues and pain of our world. By now I have undergone a number of instances looking like an idiot, getting those "You didn't know that?" looks, and sometimes even laughed at. It's humiliating-- but who cares about my reputation. My ignorance and inept knowledge in regards to the world is constantly shown. Ask the questions. Better now that our ignorance is made aware to us than 30 years down the road.

5. Fear of feeling responsible for the pain. How do I go about my activities of daily living knowing that we are doing so at the expense of the natural world and the well-being of others? This is my hardest to deal with--- I must learn HOW to deal with these feelings rather than dislodging them to some outer space within.

6. Fear of burdening others. We should proceed onward in order to keep family and friends from worrying about us and seemingly diagnosing us as "depressed." My parents continually think I am in and out of depression. Don't ever let such a diagnosis extinguish the feelings felt for the world. It's just an attempt to make you numb and ineffective.

7.Fear of becoming overly emotional and unstable. True, we are a culture led way too much by emotion, and lacking discipline, but here to say that a mere objective mindset founded on reason outweighs the validity of a "subjective" stance based on intuitions and feelings is absurd. I know being a woman and deemed "unstable and emotional" is highly unfavored and looked down upon by the dominant society. We are expected to shove our feelings inward in an attempt to operate normally with an appearance of confidence and strength.

8. One of the greatest fears: that the powers of pain are too extreme for us to handle or effectively do something. God not only gave us a mind, but a heart as well. Both to fully connect, both to think and feel, and to openly discuss and contemplate-- which hopefully fuels thought into action. We don't want to accept the fact that we didn't create ourselves, and we do not have the ultimate control over our lives. We want to have direct control over our emotions and what it feeds into-- thereby narrowing our focused areas of attention to our extent of direct control. When employing only fractions of our hearts and minds to our itty, bitty controlled areas of attention, our impact is significantly lessened.

Of course these mental fears have evolved over time and subtly communicated to us-- most of the time without words, but rather in underlying expectations guided by societal forces (such as the urges of society to: CONSUME. STAY PUT. OBEY. DIE HAPPY. )I cannot help but wonder if we were highly influenced to engage in the pain for our world then what mighty renewal may be set before us.

I have personally noted also how even the Christian culture that promotes going against the world and the heinous streams of society, finds itself still operating in the same systematic way of thought, but with different means of justification. Though this may be paradoxically understood, I still find myself believing perfect love casts out all fear. But that statement is meaningless if I am not to become aware of the fear or the pain, but rather dislodge it like all other mischievous emotions.

My hope is that we will again listen to the people and pain of our world, and feel it. Not run away or get a hunky hearty feeling of compassion, and then return to we "can't explain why we live this way, we do it everyday." I suck at it, need help and daily encouragement. Sometimes the best thing is the only thing you have: prayer.

Once again, I find myself baffled as to my reoccurring illusory state of mind. How many countless, irrevocable moments have gone by as I have pursued the liberation of my thoughts, fears and inhibitions-- in hopes to "first fix myself, so I can help fix the world"? Tending to my weaknesses, invigorating my senses, revitalizing the awareness within me in hopes of one day effectively transforming some aspect of the outside world. Sequentially, I should care for my inner self as I collect and gather the shredded fragments that consistently implode within. I should become informed and enlightened, and THEN action of paramount effect will prosper in the world. How foolish of an illusion!

"Presupposing that world and self are essentially separate, they imagine they can heal one before healing the other. This stance conveys the impression that human consciousness inhabits some haven, or locker-room, independent of the collective situation -- and then trots onto the playing field when it is geared up and ready."

We routinely "ready" ourselves up, when the healing is interwoven between us, God, and our world. We're not in this world alone, nor can we heal alone.

She proceeds on, "The world itself has a role to play in our liberation. Its very pressures, pains, and risks can wake us up -- release us from the bonds of ego and guide us home to our vast, true nature. For some of us, our love of and for the world is so passionate that we cannot ask it to wait until we are enlightened." (Joanna Macy) Speak it, sister.

The human heart longs for freedom--longs for fascination-- it longs. The deep cries unto deep-- the craving never vanishes, the longing never subdued, and the heart not yet stopped from beating. How absurd that our bodies are even actually tactile, present, and that for some odd reason this spirit inside of us is contained within a mass full of micro cellular life. I see old ladies with a wild spirit of fire that await the day their bodies will comply with the LIFE of their human spirit.

For all will be made ALIVE in Christ.

It is here that the human spirit takes the dare, the climb, the venturing not to a place unknown, but to a dimension unknown-- to a way of life unknown-- where the inconceivable is conceived. Into God-- so simple in his complexity, and yet so complex in his simplicity.

Once the human spirit is set free and made alive, there is no treading water, only treading a sweet, awe-inspired reverence-- infused with the very miracle of life.

Yummy, yums, yum. A dedication to you, FLOUR.

My old lady friends and I were baking some yummy biscotti yesterday and became amazingly intrigued with the power of flour. I mean flour is the base to BREAD. All bread. Flour is an incredible thing. And you know what?? All the poetry in the world only talks about the cool and pretty "flower." So, here is a fine dedication to the honest,wholesome FLOUR-- the foundation of any baked good in the whole wide world. All you bakers out there, brace yourself, this is a pretty powerful dedication:

FLOUR

Oh you small little bits of grainy stuff in the bowl,
You have such soft and fluffy power to which you hold!

I know we all think of you as dull, white and distinctively bland,
But you deliver such a product of yumminess- it's hard to withstand!

What are you really, though, flour---wheat and chemicals churned together?
And yet you are the base to these fine treats that we heavenly savor.

So, THANK YOU flour-- you may not be noticed or even realized,
Because without you, bread would just be a lump of crap in some disguise.

I was reading various articles and editorials in the World Watch magazine just the other day, and want to extend its insight:

"The greatest destruction in our world is not being inflicted by psychopathic tyrants or terrorists. It's being done by ordinary people-- law-abiding, churchgoing, family-loving "moral" people- who are enjoying their sport-utility vehicles, their vacation cruises, and their burgers, and are oblivious to where those pleasures come from and what they really cost. Oblivious not to what those things cost at the store, but to what they cost when all the uncounted effects of their production and use are added up." -Ed Ayers, Editor

We're here for more than our little introspective, self-absorbed, private pursuits. I have much, much to learn.

That word rings stringently in my ear as it echoes with unusual clarity...WAR. War can refer to the political and international combat where lives are sacrificed and those in power feed on the souls of the innocent--but this war was resounding as my inward cry, deep and hostile. Even as I pronounce it aloud, I feel little understanding of its meaning. The battle. The fight. The thing that must be waged in order to attain some victory. To win. "War waging against your members." I have always haphazardly assumed that if there is war, there must be victory. I so deeply love sweet, sweet competition, since the victory is that much sweeter to my soul. But war is not like competition. No, no-- there is no victory in war-- winning a war is just as horrendous as losing. It's not about winning or losing, for all lose. Mason Jennings--one of the greatest lyricists of all time-- says in song of his regarding war, "I don't want no victory, I just want you back." I don't want any victory either, I just want the peace of God back. I have never come to ponder that war waged in my inside is a wrecking effect of insufficient or unstable peace in my inside. I once read that war is a cowardly escape of the problems of peace. I had not understood this-- that just as we resort to war amidst nations, so we too resort to internal war since our actions neglect the fostering of peace. But then, how do I employ peace to my soul without understanding the war that wages against it?

I don't know. I have noted it all wrong. I almost welcome this war inside, knowing that victory alone will prevail in goodness if I fight. I shall not coward to contend for war, but instead, I shall struggle for peace that surpasses the dreadfulness of war. If we desire peace to transcend internally to our external living, then we must not be so sufficely content with victory to our internally waged war. Labor must prevail for peace, not war. Oh Lord, that you will give us your peace.

"The mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed," says the Lord, who has compassion on you.

Ehhhhh....

I cannot help but wonder what the junk I’m still doing here in Douglasville, Georgia. Same suburb-ia. Same room. Same bed. Same Sophie by my side. Same parents. Same place we’ve congregated as a family for the past 14 years. SAME. Same. sameeeeeee. And lookie here….here’s good ole Bethy wethy, back after set sailing to the land of college. Different, yes. Strange? Mmm, perhaps. Weird was always my underlying normalcy. Normal is nonexistent. I mean, really, what the crap is “normal”? There is this life that I’ve lived all around me. Every day I wake up I remember high school moments, I see awards from when I was 5 years old, and I look at pictures of family members who are no longer walking or breathing on this Earth. That’s the life I’ve lived. It’s just there—staring back at me.

Every morning I wake up to this environment just to repeat, “God, whatever parts of Beth you want me to discover and be today, I will be that.” And then I ask for faithfulness to actually do that. (That’s the hard part). And there are days that I reflect only to realize scarce discoveries, and hope that something was made aware in my subconscious, only to surface later on. No day is ever empty--whether I realize it or not.

And then I see the life I’m living. Really, really, living. Carpe Diem isn’t just for the little hellains who love to rebel and waste time to pretend like they’re seeking some adventure. Living is all inward anyways—and then involuntarily thrust and hastened to your veins and mouth. This compelling, majestic rejoice that cries out. You can’t shut this crap up. You can’t plan this “living” out, or set a certain date when this is to take place, or when it will actually be “real living.” It either is, or it isn’t. Either now or never.

These principles of life, these values, and ideals rooted in the power of the law of love emerge-- then we let the creative spirit ferment and simmer these forth. And just as you are compelled to unleash these founded truths, so are you bound with this stipulation to somehow affirm your capability to embrace such things. What will happen, and how will you and life and things all come about? And the truth is-- we don’t have any idea. You don’t know. I don’t know. Alas, will you become a mentally deranged looney? Quite possibly. Will you be alone with your “unthinkable and outlandish ideals,” completely misunderstood, or worse, no one even wanting to understand you? Maybe. Rejected at the finest level. But here is the beauty of the cyclic lifestyle of life, in not knowing—-we come back to the Source. Everything. In Him. Complete. All of it. You can’t stop the power of the law of love. When it is true, you just can’t stop it. Streams of living water...over-freakin-flow.

We center ourselves, empty ourselves, and focus ourselves. We listen, meditate and communicate. Really, though, why do we do this? We must remember that this centering and emptying cannot be solely for ourselves, to be pure, or even to be one with God. This is hard enough to do, I understand. But we must exceed such motivation and dare to take upon ourselves the pain of humanity!! In this deeply rooted prayer, the peaceable kingdom comes to life. In being, we are a witness to life. The Christian answer that our burdens have already been taken care of is not true of the present age. Jesus may have bore our sin, but he certainly did not bear our responsibilities to Himself or humankind. This thought only encourages and accepts that we are inevitably involved in making our own narrow selves the chief end of existence. MLK Jr once wrote, "Any religion that professes to be concerned with the souls of man and is not concerned about the social and economic conditions that scar the soul, is a spiritually moribund religion only waiting for the day to be buried."

We have the beautiful privilege to lose our life for the sake of others. It's a privilege, people! This type of prayer is risky and demands utter responsibility when our concerns are voiced. I have to remind myself daily that dialogue with God is possible and works in a togetherness in renewing the earth. If I don't see passed myself, I die. I DIE. I hinder the influence of the power of love revealed inwardly. And this power of love in prayer is my ONLY, and I mean only prevention of cowarding to a cynical and hardened heart.

There is a stream of life that is happening though-- just as the spring season sprouts, grows and blooms-- so do the hearts and hands of men and women who sow abundantly into the peaceable kingdom of God. And secretly and mysteriously, these seeds are coming to LIFE.

Industrialization. Modernization. Just stupid cover up words for imperialistic exploitation and continuous production of cultural genocide. Economic and strategic efforts do not justify your actions. Just be a little bird-- pecker at the bits and pieces you want and do--all for the sake of God. Annihilation of land for private profit is MURDER. And its stiff carcass is amidst us. "Oh, Beth, now that's history and how we've gotten to be where we are today." And....?!?!?!!? Damn you, capitalism.

Abroad, we invest millions in defense-- all in the name of national security. We take great homage knowing our people are protecting the American public back home from any threat or force of ill will. We want to safeguard our people, but then what provides sustainable life to these people? The existing resources of the land....or rather the depleting resources of the land. If we are not able to defend our resources, then what's the use to defend the people who cannot live without the resources? The disparaging truth of it all is with our defense-- so astute in their willpower to destroy thousands of people as well as miles of land in the name of nuclear power and protection-- we kill the very resources that keep us alive. And by us I mean every miracle of life that exists on this planet. Amazing. The food and water of nature was given freely to keep us alive, we just couldn't quite get a grip on our appetites. The U.S. is 4% of the world's population, yet it consumes one-fourth of ALL of Earth's resources. My, my...the striking intelligence of the Western world is so alluring!

Ah sweet sweet freedom.

My fat, little pumpkin-belly kitty taught me life a couple days ago that beat a hard bang deep in my core. Outside my basement, I have a rocking chair and a bird feeder so that I can talk and chit-chat with the birdies in the morning. Sophie--my dog--usually accompanies me since she is primarily preoccupied with squirrels and rather kindly relinquishes the birds for me. But poor little Truman, my sweet boy, always looks out the glass door to ponder the world outside and what we are doing--every single morning. I found out a couple of days prior that Truman had never even been outside before. For 6 years of his life, he had only looked out that stupid glass door to only imagine what life really exists in the experience of an unknown world. He had no knowledge of how life outside the door existed, he merely made interpretations based on his perception of such things. He could perceive as he wanted--though not knowing that he was crafting an extension of illusion of a world he did not know. (I don't know if he really thought this, if he's anything like me, yes, of course he did this). My parents had never let him out, scared that he may never return to his safe, little domesticated home--the only thing he had ever known.

So, one morning, I decided to, yes, let him FREE-- to remove that silly glass door hiding him from experience. And finally Truman could see the world as it is, rather than how he saw it from his internal frame of reference! Oh and the sweetness of his journey. I slowly slid the door open to let him come out and he took one step-- looked at me with those shockingly amazed eyes and proceeded onward towards a blade of grass. He sniffed the blade of grass, then he pounced on it with his paws, and then he start thrusting his jaw open at it as he tried to fully conquer the blade of grass with his mouth as he ate it. FREEDOM. He intended on utilizing every sense he had to capture this new world. Every sense! He started gagging after he ate the whole piece of grass, so I put him back inside. He threw up quite a few times. But you know what? He probably didn't care if he threw up 80 times. All worth it. ALL of it. He was a true living emphasis of application rather than theory of a perception, and that experience can thwart any rooted ball of illusion.

I hope I throw up as much as it takes to experience and give myself to the realm of knowledge where no thoughts exist apart from God-- because God and His creation share one WILL. And to get to that realm of knowledge, I must forgive-- and let the Internal Teacher mediate betweebn such worlds.

I am a living, breathing human being, and so are you. I am just as mortal as you are, just as liable to walk in error and make mistakes. I am just as hungry as you are, wanting and craving eternal things to satisfy my soul. I am just as unsure as you are. Please, walk with me, my fellow human being, teach me understanding, urge me to let the spirit of God express itself. For we know that when the creative spirit stirs, it animates a style of being that desires to bring dreams to reality. Your thoughts give life to my thoughts. Together we innovate, we explore, and we allow every piece of life to surge reverence and inspiration. This, my friend, is dialogue. The heck with independence--I choose you to engage with, my fellow cohabitant of the Earth. There are 6.8 billion of you. Today, I begin with you.

When I destroy you,
I am destroying me.
Because, believe it or not,
We are inevitably linked in this thing called HUMANITY.

"Men are beginning to realize that they are not individuals but persons in society, that man alone is weak and adrift, that he must seek strength in common action."
-Dorothy Day

We must stop the destruction of each other NOW.

What do you REALLY want?

My goal in life is to breach ignorance in a determined pursuit to find unvarnished truth. Undeniably, ignorance is the first line of defense when any issue arises amidst conversation. I feel uneasy when I am made aware of the chronic community issues that exist right before my eyes---mostly because I know at its core it will call me to change the way in which I live. I ask myself, "Where have you been, Beth?" And at the same time, I am so grateful to those who long to fuel this awareness to people--those, who deeply yearn to integrate their values into actions, whatever the cost. Thank you, God, that we have the ability to teach one another, to stimulate a sustained awareness to people who want to actively participate in this life. Let us not grow weary in doing this!

This is not a revolution, a postmodern movement nor a period of reform, rather, this is a way of thinking transformed into a way of living. What will you do when the knowledge and truth you come to acquire does not delineate an easy way of living that you had so readily prescribed for yourself? What do you want? These truths may be inconvenient, cumbersome, and absurd to instill such vast measures of change, but again, what do you REALLY want? I can't stand for whatever is true and noble and right, and then be stifled and smitten to coward back to the peachy clean lifestyle of sheer ignorance. I may try to, which sometimes I do, but ultimately, how can I? As GK Chesterton said once in his remarkable book, "A dead thing can go with the stream, but only a living thing can go against it." What do you want?

Power of love, shared

Living back with the parentals has been quite an arduous ride, with all the small yet impactful bumps along the way. But from their mouths spew incredible wisdom, which isn't always what I would choose to hear. Most of the time, though, these words resonate truth I sourly take heart in. My parents much prefer to discuss two matters of substance with me: 1. Job 2. How they can get me to fancy a bachelor and get hitched so they can nurture some grandbabies. Eh, to the first topic of interest. Pissy blah to the latter topic of interest. When the phrase "marriage" lifts off the tip of their tongue, instantly they reply, "Beth, we know, we know, you are living for a new heaven and a new earth, and you don't care about marriage right now." Damn straight. Thank God, my parents know me and understand there is much needed to be done in the world. But my dad made a comment a few days ago that struck me. He said, "Beth, God can do whatever he likes. But one thing God can't do is get married."

It didn't really phase me until the next day I was reading an article of how feminists are trying to remove God as a "he" from the traditional liturgy. I was pondering how God is nongender specific and then I thought of the words of my dad. God is all-powerful, limitless, strikingly omnipresent, and yet, he can't get some other nongender specific and get married because quite simply, he cannot share in his power with another. All this to say, why he made gender totally makes sense then. God was authentically curious to see how a power so earnest and strong as love may be shared between two people. God is so overly abundant, but yet he orchestrated it where two people relinquish their own sturdy independence to share in this ulimate power. What continually freaks me out is that I am a product of my parents' love for one another. I am their shared and united power of love--made flesh. Love made flesh. Interesting.

Dear People in Charge

Dear People in Charge,

This is not a rant, nor a compilation of dissent, nor a complete alienation of your mishaps or your faults or what you do wrong. I do wrong quite often. Your wrongs are simply more readily publicized than mine. But I do beseech upon you one minor, yet revolutionary piece of paramount action: To refrain from using this "GOD" term in your call of duty as you address the present public. Why, you ask, would you ever want to take GOD out of the minds and hearts of our leaders? This God to whom they acknowledge is being misrepresented! We flippantly throw around the phrases such as "God Bless America" and "In God We Trust." And yes, you can't deny or dissipate the growing warmth and comfort that these phrases bring. Yes, we are people that can unite in this thing known as God. But what GOD? And to whom defines him? I understand--church and state are separated. But we are left hanging here! This God to whom we are told to trust is unknown, constitutionally esoteric, incomprehensible and vague! You want us to be founded on this deeply spiritual faith-- but what of your present policies even encourage us to seek forth this truth? By using this "GOD" you simply want to tame our public behavior, and yet you forgo the most important thing about us: our founded private truths. As long as people somehow make a decree to a higher power, they are subdued, toned down, internally obliged to perform their duties. We were not meant to be contained, bottled up, harneesed, repressed and stifled! Enacting policies using "GOD" as you wrenchedly implant fear in our hearts if we do not constitutionally comply! Do you even care about us, people? Are we more than a commodity to manipulate, brainwash, and morph into a product of some exploitative sameness? Do you care about the truth that prevails within and enables us to become ALIVE? Or would you rather have us safe, tamed, weak, wimpy, pacified and domesticated? Please, instigate such that makes us come alive instead of eliciting your power as a another hidden tool of fear and social control. Look at your people--we so badly want to LIVE.

Does anyone in the world really get this?

I can't get this out of my head. This boggles me through every little neuron and synapse of my brain. And surely it cannot be understood. The degree to which humans were created with this propensity to do good and yet also with this propensity to do evil is mind blowing, almost debilitating to process this coexistence. We recognize this selfishness, our embedded pursuit of pleasure, whether recognized as conscious or unconscious. Selfishness may rule us, but yet it is not able to completely prevail over our entire beings. We are still plagued by this altruistic urge creeping its way into us. Total regard for the self is impossible, because all of us have been instilled with yet this redemptive sort-of quality--or moreorless, it is what we were created full with, until we twisted it. Even the biggest a-hole on the planet has produced some sort of goodness that ripples an effect. This deposit of morality has been fastened within us--we did not formulate it's existence. It may be suppressed, but it cannot be withdrawn. We can chose to feed whichever propensity, but none lacks either ability. And here resides these dichotomous instincts--or whatever the crap they are--and these instincts vie for dominance, struggling for greater ascendance than the other--all occurring in the inward activity in one person all at the same time. And we don't even realize it. WE DON'T EVEN REALIZE IT. Absolutely ridiculous. What kind of thing, or being, or whatever would create such a mind-blowing masterpiece? I HAVE NO IDEA. Well kinda, but holy moly...

I watched Alice in Wonderland last week. Ah the madness of Alice that I so desperately understand: "I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!" It's a wild quest for God in the tangled jungle of our souls. Then she goes on later in the movie to say,"If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?"I see. It must be some upside-down, unbalanced, unfit and wildy unleashed Kingdom with no boundaries that exists, we just don't fully understand just quite yet.

Newly Written, Purposefully Composed

With words seldomly able to express the whirlwind of emerging thoughts and feelings, I find myself oscillating once again of whether to try to write again or not to write. I hate the stereotypical ideal of insightful, prayerful, writing-in-a-journal or blog Christian girl. I ask myself again, Why is that bad Beth? I hate that that bothers me, and that I constructed a label of identity that I once saw befitting, and now view it as another suave form of conformity. I have to see this juxtaposition of messiness and madness at my core. And these are not bad, despite what we are told. This takes effort that would either propel me on a whim of curiousity that furthers my appetite of learning, or lodge me under a brick of condemnation suited only for those of inferiority. I unconsciously adhere to the latter. So I candidly rebel from writing--for a purpose none other than to keep myself from envisioning myself as this sacred being or one not good enough, who is only falsely perceived by my mind. Letting the river of thoughts create its own route of intention does something to me. This canvas becomes its own designer. I could control it and what I intend to be and how I get there. But how could I? It'd be of superficial production. So what the heck, I give in. This pool, or rather this well, that resides within wades forth a superfluous amount of water, yet without attempting some form of escape, my interior is drowned. For some time, I hope this writing will be my escape. I guess I will know if I have no more posts. I don't want to pretend like I am some thought-conceiving connoisseur, because I am not. But I am human. And to be human is the most perplexing thing besides GOD. So may the madness be conveyed! And if anything, may this madness produce goodness and resonate life that has so unknowingly been dismissed.