This is why. This, is why

Thanksgiving prayer: Thank you God for this world and your love. Thank you for this life and the ability to dream and love and laugh and cry. Thank you for the Sun and stars. Thank you for every person who has come before me and will come after me. Thank you for music and art. Help me to continue to listen for your guidance. Thank you for your animals, trees and water. For the food we eat, the clothes on our backs and the roofs over our heads. For community. Thank you for the Mystery within the Mystery. The light within the light. The darkness within the darkness. May we remain in awe and wonder, in your balance and presence forever and ever. In peace and gratitude.
Amen.
Mason.

To Ms. Leons.

There you are again.
Sinking sulkily in your bed with the basin tray next to your brows.
The blinds are raised, and the dusty, stained heater chirps forth it's air.
The paint-chipped walls, the blown out bulbs, the ole 1960's finest toilet bowl.
They await in standstill, those that inoculated me with grace over and over and over again.

The room presented it's finest findings! You got the crown! as it's prize treasure.
I could have sworn you were Sophie, but in person and non-wagging form.
With the widening of your eyes I was greeted with the sign. Yes, I saw the sign.

The sign. That weird, inexpressibly esoteric sign. Familiarly esoteric, though.

And I had not forgotten you, nor your smelly vomit.

And to be socially adept and polite, I anticipated my mindful inquiries with "How have you been? How are you feeling? What's been going on in your life lately?"
But I don't want to ask those questions. I don't want to talk. I don't even like talking, really.

I wanted to tell you that I've watched you Monday and Tuesday, and then Wednesday through Friday. Every time I came into the room, you've tried to raise your neck up a little farther to see more past my big head. Your bodily function odor held it's own up in this joint. Even so, your flatulence became my normal background music and secretly, I jammed to the beat.

And you lie there. And lie there. There. There. There in that bed. And you tell me how you've been married four times, how your daughter is gay and now in your life, you think. Day in and day out. Lying there. Thinking.

And you try to nutshell yourself to me. Signifying marriage, fetus' sexuality, and your current practices. But I didn't come for the nutshell, I came for the nut. I like you, the nut.

And I fill your cup full of pills and you smile, indicating, "Wow, I'm excited you're young and have life to live and I know you." That's what you tell me, all the time.

And now I do want to talk. I do want to ask you some questions. How do you do it? How do you take me as a big bally munch of gooeyness, thrown into the swirly lands of depravity and redemption, insanity and complete lucidness meeting up for lunch, and onward to a land where I feel a wound healed without any skin? I beg of you, why?

And so, as the swanky heater cranked itself through the wall, so too the heavens raged on chanting, knowing that their light could no longer be concealed.

The Buck of the buck.

Last night I had a dream I was "buck" at Buckhorn. And. it. was. awesome. I dreamed I was running with Hank and Frieda past the kitchen, past the sun-drying laundry being blown by the wind and into the meadow. I ran through the wild-flowered meadow and past the confluence and headed up to the ridge. By this time my dream became even better because I dreamed that the dogs weren't with me anymore but that I was now a dog running up on the ridge. (Yea, of course I was a mutt/lab mix...goes without question people). I got up to the ridge just in time before the sun was setting and I laid down in the grass. Then in my dream I started having a dream while I was a dog. I heard a British woman's voice that sang me a song, or a poem of sorts. Her voice began out way too high-pitched and opera-like, which made me want to strangle my dog ears. But then softly and gently I heard her singing words all too familiar. It was a poem I had written there quite a time ago. I had been obsessing over Emily Dickinson's style-meter and her proper and beautifully ornate English words. Her style made me tingle inside, mmmm mmmm. Her words were full of poignancy and like beloved Flannery's stories, I never knew what would come of it in the end.

Oh beautiful blades of grass
How you sway to and fro,
And to sways you
You seldom hither to know

But yet your graceful movement
Does much to catch the eye
And if you did so alone,
I'm afraid I would rather pass on by

And alas as a chorus of dancers--
As waves of elegance collide
So do I, join you, in this perpetuating
mystery, well disclosed, well disguised.


And then I woke up. It was so nice to revisit Buckhorn. It was so nice to hear me try to be like Emily Dickinson. And it is always nice to receive that little nugget of peace that God whips out onto ya. Just because it was a dream was it not real? Things outside of this world happen to us all the time. And they are completely and perfectly real and unreal all at the same time.

Wanting Change So Badly, Quality Road Humps on How to Get There.

Change. BIG word, many meanings. And if anything transparently obvious has occurred since the last election in 2008, the people have utilized the constitutional right to speech. I do get this edge of tingly excitement inside me when i think of my generation implementing it's own genre of "populist movements." Major pump fist, America. And by this I'm not just referring to the Occupy Wall Street movement, but also the Tea Party movement that initiated itself in early 2009. Also, the hundreds of thousands of protesters who made their voice known against policy changes of Governor Scott Walker in Wisconsin, who cut thousands of public government workers' pensions and benefits as a means for appropriate state growth.

When you stop and look at so much of the kind of activism that has been triggered, the Tea Party and the like, as a result of Obama's efforts - TARP, the stimulus package, and now the health care reform - there is a lot of sense this government is changing.

And if we even look more globally, we see the beginnings of the Egyptian democratic movement unfolding, leading continued democratic trends in the Libyan ruling class against Gaddafi and now into Saudi Arabia. And interestingly so, how articles published by the very wealthy ruling families of these countries confirm the need for meaningful and significant social and political changes in Arab nations.

Well I'll be damned. "Change" becomes the number one trendy word of the era. And fun to spice up, occasionally, like, "No, no, we want EPIC change!" or "REAL change is happening."

To me, this appears absolutely mind-blowing. It's fascinating, truly. And I think we can all relate significantly to this feeling-- partisan feelings aside. When we feel wronged, we respond. Some of that takes action differently... some people feel it strongly and adamantly enough that emotions shoot through the roof and they act in the first way that makes sense and can commonly make their subjective proclamation reflect adequately.

And I always laugh when I am with my ladies, we're looking pretty spiced up walking down the street, and men honk or yell out the windows at our raging, unbelievable hotness. And I always laugh and ask, "Why in the world do they do that?" And sometimes when I ask guys why they do that, they don't know. They just do it because they feel like doing it to get our attention. I keep telling my friends I can't wait for one day when some hawt stud does that to me and I take off after him in his vehicle and say, "You sure did capture my heart with that sexy, sexy honk." It could happen.

Strange. But it doesn't hit far from home, right? Something moves us and we respond. Protesting has become a key element of our response, and we have seen it hit all over the place.

I think deep down, we are disappointed. Deeply, deeply disappointed in a system that albeit known to us, has failed. Failed us in our dreams. Failed us in our hopes. Failed us in attempting to be human together as a nation. And even though I make fun of the word change, I really think it's a word to translate our deepest urges to try another way, to repent, to let go our greed and consumerism and remember what makes us who we are at the deepest level. We're the United States of America, significantly founded on premises so extreme-- that our roots we're to supposedly propel us towards greatness.

And I am in favor of change-- to our economical policies and our relinquishment of lobbying bureaucracies to determine what our country cares about. We want to remind others, as well as ourselves, what we care about. And by looking at "them," I am also look at me. Little ole betty. I want to act against the injustices that corrupt, the daily inequalities that forgo human rights and ignite despair in the lives of the helpless and powerless, and I yearn to give to aid the well-being of us, together.

I have to admit--- my life is pretty chaotic. I used to be super disciplined and super all-knowing (duh) but then life kept bitch slapping me all the time that my brain would fill with lots of thoughts all the time (and sometimes really awesome magical thoughts) and presumably making the realization that I didn't know anything (such a shame). It would be so much better if I was married and had 2 and half kids and lived somewhere mightily awesome with a really fat chunky dog because then I could attribute my chaos to that. But I'm not married. I DON'T EVEN HAVE A DOG. Just a killer great stuffed elephant named Hermie (who comes alive at night). Sometimes I need a vacation from myself. But I'm with myself day by day, and sometimes--even for just moments--I can set aside my chaotic brain and act in small ways towards the just and goodness of our people and land.

So, what I am getting at is that practical action initiated into our day-to-day awesome lives is where the most effective, and potentially feasibly, collective change can occur. And by God, we can do this.

BUT HOW?

Here are my ideas:

1. Curb that appetite, homegirl. The fact of the matter is not that we will not consume as American people, but on WHAT will we consume. Will we buy those jeans that are made by cute children laboring from poor working environments while we rage in super trendiness in American style? Which matters? And honestly, when we take the time to care about our choices and the rippling effect of our choices, it takes effort. SERIOUS effort. And that is when we decide between what we care about and laziness/comfort. Most of the time we buy to boost our self-esteem and remake some sort of value to our "value." Look good, dangit, but do some good while lookin it. And the whole "localvore" is not for raging liberal hippies. It's caring about the community around you and supporting them through intentional economic endeavors. (Though I do admit that the raging liberal hippies have stunned me with some awesome ideas before)

2."I'm a lover, not a fighter," once said Michael Jackson. And I'm pretty sure that today the saying to lead the way of change would be, "I'm a giver, not a taker." And that essence, truly I think we know we are alive when we give, and especially to those who are in legitimate need. Though I'm a Pinterest junkie and junk junkie connoisseur, I truly don't want to live a narrow-minded life that forgets my neighbor and hesitates to see past my own interests. You are your brother's keeper, and that is s gift beyond compare. Who are the marginalized in your community-- who are just as hungry for love and acceptance and care as you are?

3. Discipline in the Financial Realm. It speaks for itself. And I am not saying much because me and Dave Ramsey need to spend a little more time together.

4. Make it, bake it, CREATE it! Surely most of us feel stifled in our creative process a lot of the time, but you can be renewed in that by returning make to the basics. Again, this take effort. I am attempting to learn how to knit (I have fat fingers so it's been a process) and also learning how to relish certain ingredients to whip up a convenient and healthy meal anytime. I first encourage you to hit up trying to grow your own food! There is such a beautiful thing about eating things in which you've witnessed the process of it's growth (This is not a statement to encourage you to eat your cat). Use your farmer's markets-- farmers really are the coolest people I know. Not a lie. Go to junkyards, check it at goodwill, find treasures that are considered "junk." All matter of perspective, people.

5. Broaden your civic engagement. Find volunteer opportunities that vary in accordance with groups of people where you can learn how things are run and voice inequalities that may exist in different lines of policy. We think we know, but really we don't know much because we don't get involved with those that make decisions and are geared toward tomorrow's future. Read your local history. Let's learn where we've been to see where we can go.

6. Brainstorm continuous ideas for change right where you are.

7. Live simply in content. Get over yourself and your expectations. Today is the best thing that's ever happened to you.

I think our influence on how we incorporate change is more contagious than we realize. I suck at these things a lot-- knowing the small yet heavy power they have in the small movement of things is incredible and sometimes overwhelming. But when we sow into the things of true life and goodness, we will surely bring a change in ourselves, and the mighty change in us as a people.

“When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic about the future, my answer is always the same: If you look at the science about what is happening on earth and aren’t pessimistic, you don’t understand data. But if you meet the people who are working to restore this earth and the lives of the poor, and you aren’t optimistic, you haven’t got a pulse. What I see everywhere in the world are ordinary people willing to confront despair, power, and incalculable odds in order to restore some semblance of grace, justice, and beauty to this world.” ― Paul Hawken

Here, finally here, again.

She's here. FINALLY. I couldn't leave here without embracing her wide-eyed scheme of colors and fancies that make my heart want to explode. Autumn has come once again and there is no where in this entire world I'd rather be than here in Appalachia-- in these mountains with these mountain folk. Life is incredible. Love is incredible. And the way in which God is... even sweeter.







Having moments of nostalgia-- where all my homey feelings and moments of sweetest pleasure burst to the surface. I feel like ghosts of close family and friends are all around me. Seeing what I see, feeling what I feel. It's the journey we take on together in the most willing pursuits. And our family only grows bigger with new strangers every day.

About a month ago I got to attend a sort of seminar called School for Conversion.. eh, but not really a school of sorts. My friends here laughed at me going to such a thing to learn how to create a "community." They think one day I will have a host of communes filled with sick old people and hippies. And I say, I'm okay with that. :) Anyways, the weekend SFC blew me out of the waters. I was fueled by the passion, by the willingness to not just rage out against a broken system, but to be the forerunners of hope in a broken system. I was inspired and encouraged in the deepest ways. The vision at the School for Conversion is to work toward beloved communities where people unlearn social divisions through experimentation in a way of life with God that makes surprising friendships possible. I remember not being so much a fan of the title of the weekend, "School for Conversion." I had asked the director why he called it that-- mostly because I strongly refuted that word-- "conversion." But Jonathan, in his remarkable humility and understanding in the evangelical realm, stated, "It's not this one-time conversion as most hold onto that the title references. Though, in many eyes, that one time event is very meaningful. But rather this sort of conversion refers to a sort of continuous conversion. Continuing to turn towards God, to turn and remember, to fall in love over and over and over again. Forever turning. Forever converting." We are cyclic beings, seasonally changing. Seasonally turning. And that's what I experience with the trees, with this color, with this expansive realm of what God only knows. I convert without even realizing it at times. And sometimes I want to say damnit because I want to still be a rebellious little girl. But what happens when your heart has been sold, long gone into the family of things?

As my absolute favorite favorite Mary Oliver writes,

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

Well, what will it be? You know what it is nudging at your soul. GO. FOR. IT. And don't look back.

The Tiger.

Proverbs, parables, stories. I read these sometimes, displace myself…. And dream my way to bettyland.

Kudos to a dear friend who gave me this one particular parable and commentary by Buechner that is incessantly unwavering in beauty and metaphor. So overwhelming that I couldn’t help but share—

Sri Ramakrishna, the great Hindu saint of the nineteenth century, told a parable regarding a grass-eating tiger:

“Once a tigress attacked a herd of goats. A hunter saw her from a distance and killed her.

The tigress was pregnant and gave birth to a cub as she expired. The cub began to grow in the company of the goats. At first it was nursed by the she-goats, and later on, as it grew bigger, it began to eat grass like the goats. Gradually the cub became a big tiger; but still it loved and ate grass. When attacked by other animals, it would run away, like the goats. One day a fierce-looking tiger attacked the herd. It was amazed to see a tiger in the herd eating grass and running away with the goats at its approach. It left the goats and caught hold of the grass-eating tiger, which he began to nervously bleat and continued nibbling at the grass.

But the fierce tiger dragged it to the water and said: 'Now look at your face in the water. You see, you have the face of a tiger; it is exactly like mine.' The tiger refused to recognize the similar reflections. Next the fierce tiger pressed a piece of meat into the grass eating tiger's mouth. At first the grass-eating tiger refused to eat the meat. Then it got the taste of the meat and relished it. Finally as he ate and ate, the truth gradually became clear to him. As he forcefully dug his muscular claws into the ground, the young beast raised his head as he unleashed an exultant roar that trembled the Earth and flooded the jungle with awe.”

That was the shortened version. So there seems to be this idea that all the religions in the world recognize the simple basic understanding that humans in how they exist now are not what they were created or even evolved to be. The tiger is not really a goat at all—he is actually a tiger--- but perceives himself as a goat. Just like the tiger, maybe the image we were to reflect never was clear, or invariably distorted. Maybe here we get insight into the tiger’s problem and so it may be: the human condition problem. If the tiger who thinks he is a goat could convert himself into an actual goat, everything could be fine. But I mean come on, what do we do with ourselves when we find out we’re really another type of species other than we thought? Besides piss our pants in disbelief? IF we even find this out? We may even realize that we are tigers but just keep a nibblin’ the grass because we don’t know what the hell else to do, or how the hell to start to living like as a tiger. We eat the grass. We bleat well. But by God, Heaven knows we feel the roar inside our bones. But some say, “Oh just accept what you know!” because maybe this was what was to happen and that goathood is all we are supposed to know. And maybe this is true and right but sometimes still the deep cries out from the deep…

Others rage “Might as well get living as a goat! Enjoy it, try new grasses, drink crazy kinds of water. Get cute little luxuries to make you feel warm and tingly and nice.” But maybe the ache, the intuition of the waking up and life within as yourself, as a tiger, remains.

And then our stomachs really begin to ache because we know. God, we know! We have seen the Tiger—the terrible roaring mighty fella who people call Jesus—this explosion of a man, this explosion of Life itself into actual life. We can only glance up for a fleeting moment from our grazing to see what a real human being looks like. And if we aren’t terribly paralyzed or pissing our pants in rolling amounts of fear, then the rippling painful tide of contrast becomes inevitably clear.

Speechless. “Oh shit,” we think. “If this is what it means to be human, then what am I? If this is what it is to be alive, am I even living?” The thought lingers--that terrible quality of full life that resonates from that magnificent being—--what will it do to us?

We could all just feel miserable and sub-par and be grumpy groany goats and feel like the way of that Tiger is ultimately the way of despair.

But the beauty of this Tiger, of this Christ, of the many thousand names that all just try to convey so messily and beautifully is this: that this man has power to give. To give life to the half-alive. To give tigerhood back to the tigers. “To them I will give a white stone with a new name written on the stone”—and this new name is the life, the self, that in our moments of truth we as humans yearn, above all else perhaps, to find. What he gives us is ourselves. What he tells us is our names and who we really are—our brother’s keeper, God’s children. And he offers us food and drink to warm our blood and make us drunk with the mystery and joy of it all.

--Buechner (though semi-edited with curse words and questions by yours truly, :D betty)

When Harry Met Sally--SCRATCH..When Betty Remet Larry

It's late Thursday afternoon. Right after I woke up, it came to me. I needed some action. I'm talkin' some mighty wrist action. (Mind out of the gutter here, people). Wrist action = overly excessive waving and greeting by me, betty, yours truly. What do you think of when you think 5:30 p.m.? Time to start fixin some grub, catch the daily news, lil nappy nap nap..or something of the sorts??? You know what I think? I get all tingly inside and gooey feeling with a fist pumped scream, "IT's GERI TIME." Time to get to the street. Time to embrace my sweet street geris.

Now there are all kinds of geris out there...hospital geris, rehab geri babies, my singing dementia geris at the home, yoga geris, AND the infamous street geris. Best part about living in Fayetteville is that I can run to the top of the mountain from my apt, watch the sunset on the gorge overlooking the New River, AND bypass the 1950s and 40s housing on my way there. MEANING...who's outside relaxing in rocking chairs after a sweet homestyle meal of baked beans and cornbread fixins' and lawd knows, a pot roast at about 5:30 p.m.? And Lord, you'd think there was some sort of silent bell ringer, or internal clock, the way everyone congregates out of their houses at 5:30 p.m. It's the inherent "in" social programming still taking place after 70 years of ringing I suppose. (If it's 5:35 p.m, get back in your house!) We rock it on time, here, ladiesss.

So, one night on my run and delight of saying and waving howdy to the regulars... I noticed down the street a bit a new neighbor I had not previously encountered before. The screen door was partially opened with a wil lil being making his way out on the wheelchair. Cute, petite, a hawtie for sure, without a doubt. A strange, impartial hair line that was a cause for observing. Then, a shaking of his left hand to re- position the big fat chunky watch and I just about fell over. It was Larry. "LARRRRRRRRY!" I screamed. Oh my goodness, it was Larry, and he was wheeling himself out!

Now let me explain a little background about Larry: Larry and I go way back. Like 4th floor way back. In the dead honking middle of winter. (Name has been changed for HIPPAA regulations). Larry had been admitted to the hospital with severe SOB due to a collapsed lung, had a chest tube inserted to maintain oxygenation, and also had a bad case of severe crankiness (via my diagnosis), and acute renal failure. He was very, very sick...his body was taking a turn to either compensate at the cellular level or wipe out completely and not recover. Larry was in his mid-80s, had been a coal miner for over 55 years, and apparently, reigned as a King Rufio in the nursing home as he had his gang of misfits regularly surround him. Now as a nurse and depending on your level of stress during a particular shift, sometimes you can only handle so much crankiness. Larry was a raspy little thing and a wild man. He was king of raspy whining, "Nurrrrse. Water, water." Even when I was in the room, he'd yell, "nuurrrrrse!!!!!! nurrrrrse!!!!!!" He droned out the rrrrr for dramatic effects, he'd squint one eye open like a hidden pirate to see if I noticed him and when I saw him, he'd close his eye quickly and pretend as if he never tried to open it. Every five minutes, "Nurrrrrrrrse!!!!! I'm'a hurtin' nurse," he'd say. "Well Harry I gave you your large dose of pain medication already and am giving it to you every hour." Right back in my face, he'd scream, "MORPHINE NURRRRRRRRRRRSE." I thought I was developing a twitch, I wasn't gonna make it. Nerves were being shot. He was a master knot tie-r, contorting and tying his foley into odd shapes that you'd think he was trying to be one of those balloon animal shaper people. "Larry, please stop throwing your legs into the air and flashing those walking by." His reply, "NURRRRRRRRRSE." One day after I had had him for 3 days as a patient, and my nerves were tied shut after being in his room incessantly hearing nurrrrrrse more than I could mentally and physically handle, he said as I was about to go, "NUrrrrrrrrrrrrrse. I gotcha nurse. I GOTCHA." He squinted his little eye and half smirked in a delightful amused state of mind, loving this moment in all that it contained. He had won. And so, I replied, "High five, Larry. You just kicked my tail these past few days." A deep, fierce chuckle rang loud from that bed, shaking the grounds into the nurses' station. Larry had made me his bitch, and he had won.

So there he was again. Seeing him from a distance, watching him look out and still not see me was mind-blowing. Finally I ran right up to the porch to greet him in both secrecy and excitement.

"LArrrrry!!!!!!" I shouted.

He was silent for a moment, as I thought he wouldn't know me or forgot who I was. The man across from me grinned without his dentures, gums beety and red, eyes both open, squinty and gleaming.

"NUrrrrrrrrrrrrrrse."

For as much as I hated that sound, there was a special ring in his tone. A sound of remembrance, a sound of friendship, a sound of another chance to embrace life. And a sound that he had still owned me, and he still loved every ounce of it.