Truth be told...

Thanks Steve!

Huh?

Sage advice

Thanks to the awesome David Dark.

Cheesus Freak

Whilst perusing the Internet for news I’ve missed in recent weeks, having been busy with work and work-related things, I found this very interesting and profoundly spiritual nugget of news that I've deemed worth sharing.  Apparently  last week, a couple in Dallas discovered a Jesus-shaped Cheeto in their bag of Cheetos. They promptly named it Cheesus, which is a masterstroke of marketing (although not that original, it turns out), and are considering auctioning it off on eBay—with the implied threat that if it doesn't sell, they may just eat it.  In my church, eating God is called communion but I’m not sure if the “bread” –being  a sculpted icon of Jesus in chedar cheesy goodness, laden with calories and fat —turns into sin (gluttony)when you want to consume a handful of god(s) in one full sweep. Nevertheless, when you come by it honestly, as in just eating your chips and, coincidentally, you happen to be mired in a worldview that God is in all things, I would imagine that it dials in as a miracle, answered prayer or some version of Heaven on earth. 

It's partly a matter of luck, but it also takes a good eye for spotting the random edible miracle.  Also, one must remember that context is everything: you might find a Shiva or an Apollo, but they're not going to be that newsworthy in the U.S., so stick with tried-and-true icons like Jesus or the Virgin Mary. A Cthulhu-shaped snack might net you some cult fame, but probably not a lot of money.

a little Monday meditation

I'm schlepping through papers on my desk in a long overdue "paperwork" working afternoon. Just found this sheet, this quote, at the bottom of the heap and thought it was a lovely reminder in the sunny buzz and clean-up, this Monday afternoon.  Hope you enjoy as well:

The world is crowded with Him.  He walks everywhere incognito.  

And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate.  

The real labor is to remember, to attend.  

In fact, to come awake.  Still more, to remain awake.

-CS Lewis, Letters to Malcolm Chiefly on Prayer

a lazy Sunday afternoon

I have been busy: in part in my mind and in part the practical, no-nonsense shuffle of work, moving and general life.  Today,  I ran across a poem that moved me and I thought I’d share it.  Written by Derek Walcott, it’s a poem that, in my estimation, points (versus directs) to unity within our worlds and ourselves. Living mindfully in the realities of life: the tension of personal power and powerlessness, the mystery of God, goodness and suffering and having a presence of mind (and body) to not take ourselves (our woes, our resentments, our aches, pains, comforts…) so bloody seriously—is  not a conquest but an awareness, a quiet knowing of sorts.  And when we get a glimpse of that “quiet knowing” this poem feels like the springtime arrival for a journey that, paradoxically, we forget we're taking.

Love after Love:

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

 

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

 

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes, 

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott

Bottle Shock (the movie) review

I've never done this before but I've decided to post my most recent article for Nashville Wine Press on my blog.  For the newbies, I write a fun social column for a local wine magazine here in town.  I'm not partial to this specific writing but rather I wanted to share the "idea" espoused in the article, which is a how-to-have-your-own wine tasting. Hope you enjoy:

Angela's Analysis

Bottle Sloshed
Angela Hart

The movie Bottle Shock tells the story of the historic 1976 wine tasting known as the Judgment of Paris, where, for the first time, American vintners managed to defeat the French in a blind tasting to crown the ultimate Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay, the signature varietals of red and white wine. That history coupled with Bottle Shock felt like the perfect marriage of revelry and wine for a mid-March Friday night. I corralled ten friends to come to my house for a tasting, followed by dinner and the movie. In tribute to said history we had ten bottles of French and California wines from which we partook. 

In theory, it was a grand idea. What’s more fun than a blind wine tasting with your friends? Well, nothing, in theory. But a blind tasting with drinking enthusiasts and ten bottles of vino, without certain rules, regulations, and portion control, is more like a drunken frat party than a tasteful, elegant wine tasting. Or at least mine was. In therapy (I’m a psychotherapist), I’m nondirective; it’s good to follow the pace and narrative of my clients, to stay open to where the therapy hour leads us. In indirections we find directions out said Shakespeare’s Hamlet. To Hamlet I might say: Not so much with wine tastings. With indirection and ten bottles of wine—essentially one bottle per person—people mostly just devolve. By vin nombre deux my lovely friends were pouring half of a glass per “taste,” less concerned with educating their palates than indulging them, consequently getting louder, looser, and less mindful of their preferences in the exchange of sips for slurps. I Mother Hen’d for a bit: slow down, write down what you taste, savor the flavors, notice what’s in your mouth, focus, stay dignified for God’s sake!!! 

But in the end, I had to shift my expectations. In psychological rhetoric this is called cognitive restructuring. In wine talk, it’s called chilling out and going with the flow. Everyone was having fun, filling out the score sheets I had dutifully prepared, and legitimately enjoying themselves. And ultimately, when a winemaker makes wine, he doesn’t make it so that people have little tastes and then spit it out. Rather, it’s to drink—by itself or paired with food. It’s meant to be festive, celebratory! Who am I to judge how wine is enjoyed? And so went my “cognitive reconstructs.”

Of course, trying to wrangle a group of fun-loving artistic drinking enthusiasts to sit still and watch a movie after a generous wine tasting is like trying to get a bird to fly happily into a cage. The movie Bottle Shock likened to background music with the inebriated peanut gallery sitting around my living room. Still, we barreled through and collectively enjoyed ourselves, laughed, and, at the very least, got the gist of the movie. In the end, we cheered California—the underdog and winner in the Paris blind tasting—with a football fan’s enthusiasm.

I scored our own little tasting. We, too, preferred the illustrious California grapes. Our top pick was a 2006 Broc Dry Stack Vineyard Petite Sirah. Wine notes varied from: bright and flavorful or licorice and velvety to it’s like a punch in the mouth. One person wrote: It smells great, like dill and herbs. I want this in a candle. Another noted that it was a happy wine. A close second, down by only one point, was the 2007 Meyer-Fonné Gentil d’Alsace, a French white. There was a love fest with this wine. The commentaries included: I love it. Grapefruit, not cat pee, and a little bite on the front of the tongue. Love it! It’s grapefruit-y, almost effervescent. Overall, floral, fruit, and love were the consensus for this varietal. Our bronze medal went to another California blend, the 2006 Carr Pinot Gris. One guy wrote: Too sweet; if you’re a chick, this is your wine. Turns out he was right. This white blend got the highest marks from the ladies. Love it. It’s like heaven. It tastes springy, like vegetables. Apricot. Chewy. And my personal favorite—It’s solid, if you are a girl. 

Next time I might have more detailed descriptor sheets for those (note: most of us) who don’t automatically think “I get a hint of white flowers and cassis with a complex finish.” Nevertheless, I was proud of my oenophiles-in-training. Sexism aside, they brought it home, did their assignments with sass and style, and even showed some palate versatility to the winning trinity.

I watched Bottle Shock again the following afternoon, by myself. I loved it. The panoptic view of rolling vineyards and industrious vintners is always a staggering visual. And the actor who played Bo Barrett is definitely a picture that is solid, if you are a girl. The story, albeit a loose interpretation of the facts, is a compelling reminder of the TLC that goes into every bottle of grape goodness, no matter if it’s Napa Valley or Bordeaux. It’s all good. Just ask my friends.

To host your own bona fide wine tasting and movie showing, visit www.bottleshockthemovie.com and click on the “Party Pack” bottle. It has a downloadable party guide including tasting tips, party checklist, and wine suggestions. There are even party invitations! I wish I had found this before my party!!

Sounds of Music in the Central Station

I don't know why but these sort of things always (without fail) make me laugh. I just imagine being in the station, the airport or where ever and a gaggle of passer-bys breaking out in song and dance. Perhaps it takes me back to my musical theatre days. In my very chaotic world these days, this is a day brightener. And don't stop watching before the hip hop section.

Good Friday in Seagrove, Florida

Sitting at Rebecca’s beach house in Florida, watching the waves bully their way through the fierce winds and onto the shore, I am reminded that I was on the beach last Good Friday as well.  Last year I was bubbly and bursting with energy, stopping for a “quick blog” at my family’s apartment on the marina, before a long training run on the beaches in Santa Monica.  It was hard to feel the weight of death last year, and to meditate on the hours preceeding ressurection.  This year I’m sitting on the couch with a sick little one, Jamieson—who has strep throat and an ear infection—on my right, and nursing my own back ailment.  Earlier today I had the audacity to shift right, abruptly, and my neck/back went out.  Drugs and a too-expensive (but luxurious) hot rock massage later, I’m perched in a chair with ice hanging off my shoulder, like a purse, watching wind, waves and a little sickie lament about his ear.  And I’m half-heartedly thinking about Good Friday. 

It’s been a crazy few weeks for me.  I’m on the homestretch of a whirlwind move—moving homes and offices (both Nashville AND Franklin offices).  My back was gracious enough to hang with me for the heavy lifting, for which I’m thankful.  And now—after two round-the-clock weeks of chaos—I’m grateful for my lovely new home, the amenities of said home and the friends that pulled up their sleeves with me to make my move a little more possible.  I’m taking a moment to breath from these past two weeks; this coupled with a reflection on the liturgical calendar and a spoonful of empathy for the 5-year-old next to me is just about right, right now.  It’s not deep.  But it’s not chaotic either, which is nice.

This is what I wrote last year on Good Friday:  Today is a day of darkness and death in the Christian Easter tradition; today is the day that we linger in the remnants of “My God, my God; why have you forsaken me.” It is hard to live in the tension of death; we are not comfortable in things that don’t add up, feel right or, for me, are laughable and fun. We hate ambivalence, which is the coexistence of positive and negative feelings towards the same person or thing. But I think it’s important to remember that Christ did die. He left. Period. Push yourself to not avoid this pain, this tension, of The Passion today. There are things in life that don’t make sense, that just are. And because the story doesn’t end in death, there is hope. But hope, resurrection, life, (insert your favorite word here) is not fully experienced without it’s opposite. Having even a moment of sobriety today where we remember the story, sans the luster, aware of each of our parts in Christ’s death, will give us all more to celebrate on Sunday. Happy Easter weekend everyone. I will try to feel the ache of the resurrection sometime today, although it’s going to be a hard sell, as it’s a gorgeous day in L.A. and we’re running to Manhattan Beach. 

Elizabeth Gilbert: A new way to think about creativity

I'm in the midst of a writing deadline and started remembering this talk that a dear friend introduced me to last week. Gilbert, a writer from a much higher pedigree than myself, speaks to the creative process in a way that is fresh, vitalizing and impassioned with equal measures of hard work and surrender. Sit back, grab your brown bag of ginger snaps (or is that just me), and enjoy an unassuming artist talk about art, inspiration, narcissism, neurosis and the simple path of merely doing your part -no more and no less.

Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

My Own Private Idaho

Hi there,

So I’m in Idaho tonight.  I flew into Boise late last night and spent a lovely, low-key day with my sister-in-law and beautiful niece.  Driving to Twin Falls—my hometown—today, I saw tons of tumbleweeds during the two-hour drive and it made me laugh. I thought: if there is something to karma, coming back as tumbleweed would be the worst.  You’ve gotta be a total thug the first go round if that’s your kismet.

Over a casual pasta dinner, I caught up with my dad.  He told me about his near death experience rafting the middle-fork of the Salmon River this past summer.  We collectively commiserated over the recent Internet campaign of “adventure river trips.”  Here’s the short: A limited number of people can run the river each year so there is a raffle in which each rafting hopeful must participate.  What used to be a fairly local sport has exploded into an escapade that people in the likes of Alabama or Ohio, who have probably been inspired by the Wild at Heart series, have decided to put their name in the hat. The nation got wind of the raffle.  The downside is that the residents who live, breathe and deeply respect the river have about a 1 in 300 chance now to actually raft The Salmon for weeklong trips.  I’m obviously bias and politically incorrect but it chaps me to watch family and friends, purists who don’t hire outfitters or cooks to do their dirty work, loaf around in lakes all summer while scallywags from around the world come and crowd out their rivers. I guess it’s like everything that has quiet local appeal and beauty—the smallness is temporal. You can bottle the trip and the accompanying seductions but you can’t bottle the heart, which is what the locals bring. And now take to the local lakes.  Did I mention that this (Idaho) was also prime Indian real estate, back in the day?  I suppose they've got dibs on the axe grinding.

In other news, I told my dad about my Anglican 101 class and the countdown to my conversion. He was curious and genuinely interested. He's an elder of a large, reputable church in town, more conservative than my own. His openness to my journey is appreciated. We rented Flash of Genius tonight, which is a true story about an inventor who sued Ford Motor Co. for stealing his idea. It’s a compelling story, worth seeing. Injustice comes in all forms, fashions and intensities.

All in all it is so nice to be in Idaho, around a past –and essentially a self—I often feel so disconnected to in my fast-pace, cerebral and celebratory (not to be confused with celibate-ory, although if the shoe fits…) life in Nashville.  This is not a pining for greener grass.  We all have many sides to ourselves and inevitably one side gets the heavy.  It is just the nature of things, the Tao of reality, which I am resisting.  Much like the rest of the world discovering my home state, it’s merely a cost/benefit ratio. I guess if we are not living our lion's share in cost/deficit, it's all good.

Ash Wednesday

Lent:  A season of renewal, self-discipline, focus, abstinence and choosing cleansing over comfort.

 

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." -Aristotle

God, who is all charity and light, wants to make us perfect as he is perfect, shot through with his radiance.  The first step in our healing, then, is not being comforted.  It is taking a hard look at the cleansing that needs to be done. –Frederica Mathewes-Green

Recycling my attitude (starring Lent and Rohr)

Okay, so I know that recycling is a pain. in. the. ass.  My experience is not the exception.  I have a small kitchen with a tiny cubby barely big enough for my garbage bin, much less bins for garbage in its many reusable forms.  I have a collection of bins in a mirrored closet behind a curtain in my office, adjacent to my kitchen, for recycling.  Every time a wine bottle or a milk carton has run its course, the closet behind the curtain, in the next room, is the destination.  High-class complaint, I know.  But ALL complaints are relative, no ?—and besides, I’m not really complaining.  I’m painting a picture.  After the bins pile into mass chaos I go about separating the piles (plastic, glass, cardboard, etc.), end up with about a gazillion bags of salvage, schlep these bags down three flights of stairs into my car and drive across town to Green Hills, where my garbage meets its karma. 

So big deal.   A LOT of people do this, right?  Well right.  And wrong.  (I know a surprising amount of people that have not taken to the idea of recycling yet.)  But whatever, people come to things when they come to things. This is not my complaint either.  Actually, I don’t really have a complaint except that recycling is a pain, which feels like an entitled, spoiled and unexciting complaint.  That said, today I was stopped in my crabby tracks and I wanted to share:  

I was dumping my myriad bags of recyclables into their respected bins and I was struck with a picture:  An elderly, fragile, stooped-over woman, probably in her late 70’s or 80’s, caring a little bag of newspapers to the paper bin.  It was such a beautiful image, watching this lovely woman in her biologically conservative nature, doing her small part.  She walked much slower than I and seemed much less mission-minded than the rest of us do-gooders.  I suspect she wasn’t frustrated that the recycling trucks don’t come to her neighborhood, like yours truly.  She didn’t seem ornery because it smelled bad or it was cold outside.  She was simply recycling her garbage one small bag and even smaller step at a time.  She smiled at me, as to say, how about this process, and I smiled back.  We carved out a few small words and some small talk. Intuitively I slowed down, calmed down and dutifully finished putting my reusable’s in their respected bins.  And I left feeling grateful for this unassuming woman that Fate put in my path, who’s humility and grace did more for my mission to recycle than any brochure, statistic or charismatic charge ever could.  I actually felt blessed to have the opportunity to recycle and ultimately reprocess, not only my rubbish, but my mind-set as well. 

“We do not think ourselves into a new way of living; we live ourselves into a new way of thinking,” quotes the sage Richard Rohr.  Here’s to a Lenten season of living ourselves into new ways of thinking, as we slowly and faithfully recycle our respected little bags of refuse, staying mindful in the process and grateful for the goal.

Take it easy

We make such a fuss about “seeking God.”  We’re anxious about so many things, and faith, prayer, and searching for God are not excepted.  Are we doing it right?  Will a retreat teach us a better way?  Which method of prayer will be most effective for us?  What church congregation will best “feed us spiritually”?  Probably the best thing we can do is to relax, take a deep breath, stop thinking about what we want or need, and forget about it.  Seeking God, that is.  Instead we might wait, and begin to silently ponder the ways in which God may already have been seeking us, all along, in the faulty, scary stuff of our ordinary lives.

God knows we have problems letting bygones be bygones in our respective lives.  Maybe that’s where God has been contending with us, engaging us in the process of conversion.  Most of us have had family, mentors, friends, and counselors that have wrestled with us through the important questions; who have helped us grow up, building something good out of the ruin we have made for ourselves.  Like Jacob, maybe some of us have looked for a curse and received a blessing instead.  Like Jacob, some of us have found the worst parts of ourselves converted into something better, our small expectations shattered in the presence of God’s great abundance, or as the old hymn puts it, “the wideness of God’s mercy.”  This is worth noticing, worth our body's and soul's availability.  We won't notice if our seeking is clamoring for all of our attention.  Often times it's better to be sought.

(This is a loose interpretation of thoughts by Kathleen Norris in her insightful book Amazing Grace; A Vocabulary of Faith.)

Counter-transference

Hello, I’m sorry I lost myself, I think I thought you were someone else.  —REM

I’ve been thinking about counter-transference lately, both in and out of my office.  Are you familiar with the concept? Bill looks like my father; I was always scared of my father.  Jason flatters me, my ex-boyfriend flattered me—and then left me—as a result, I’m terrified to get close to Jason, based on past histrionics.  Maggie talks incessantly; my grandmother has no filter and it infuriates me.  Consequently, I am abrupt and hasty with Maggie.  Get the point? Counter-transference is defined (or a loose interpretation of Freud’s definition) as a person’s influence on another person’s unconscious feelings.  Although we can never get out of the clutches of memory associations, it is important to understand and have self-awareness in our own stories, as an internal navigator in emotional and social situations.  When we experience an acute emotion—anger, anxiety, frustration, impatience –that feels disproportionate to the situation at hand, there is a good chance we are in a moment of transference.  This is worth knowing for these three reasons: as an aide in deconstructing and understanding our respected strong reactions, an offering or pointer into our own unfinished psychological work and/or spiritual healing and a preventable measure for misguided blame or expectation on other people. 

I’m noticing more and more in my office (and in my own life) that when we slow down our reactions, observe and just notice, honoring said reactions with curiosity rather than judgement and empathy instead of defeat, we take ourselves less seriously (we are all murderers and whores, no?), live out our hurt with less venom and, paradoxically, begin to take ourselves, our personal dignity and the people around us, much, much more seriously.

Wild Geese

A friend recently reminded me of this poem.  I was feeling a bit out of sorts and he suggested I  reread Wild Geese by Mary Oliver.  It was the perfect elixir. It settled me, brought me back to the surprise of spring in February and that which I—or we—miss when we forget that the world goes on—in all its tragedy yes, but in all its splendor as well.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver


You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees 


for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 


You only have to let the soft animal of your body 


love what it loves. 


Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 


Meanwhile the world goes on. 


Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 


are moving across the landscapes, 


over the prairies and the deep trees, 


the mountains and the rivers. 


Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 


are heading home again. 

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 


the world offers itself to your imagination, 


calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--


over and over announcing your place 


in the family of things.

Really?

This morning has been marked by two solved mysteries in my little world, that I thought I would share.

A.    For about 5 years now I’ve been looking for one of my backpacks.  It’s one of those Eagle Creek ones that you get in your mid-twenties, prior to Euro-railing Europe.  I bought and used it for said purpose, and have needed it on various occasions since then. I vaguely remember loaning it out sometime around Y2K.  This morning when I let my dog out, guess what was sitting there, outside of my door.  Yep, my Y2K Eagle Creek mack daddy of a backpack. RANDOM for sure – but I’ll take it!  Thanks backpack, for returning to me! Makes me want to go backpack Europe again!

.

I I started running again last week.  This week I’ve been on a few runs and afterwards my left ankle has been hurting.  I’ve chalked it up to getting back in the swing.  This morning, as I was getting ready to slip into my trainers, I noticed something askew.  See if you notice?

Yes, they are two different shoes.  Same colors, tru dat.  But one is a Saucony and one is an Adidas.  One if from last year and the other one is from two years ago.  I’m a dumb-ass.

Who's your daddy? Henry VIII, actually

I am becoming an Episcopal.  I am very excited about this, for myriad reasons.   My choice words—I am becoming—are intentional as I’m in Episcopalian training (Anglicanism 101) right now. Yes boys and girls –it’s THAT easy, a mere 8 week class!  I have been attending St. Bartholomew’s, an Anglican church, for three years now and the liturgy coupled with community, service, mission, heart and theology has become the perfect brew of an active and contemplative spiritual reality for me. A brief history: The Episcopal Church is the American version of the Anglican Church worldwide.  The Anglican Church is synonymous with The Church of England.  When we had that little scrimmage with England in 1776 we stopped calling ourselves proper Anglicans –being that we didn’t acquiesce to the Queen any longer—and picked up the term Episcopal in the USA.  So we are part of the larger Anglican Church (world wide) but are Episcopal by virtue of being Americans.  And there is a large continuum in the American Episcopal Church as well, as we all know: from a transcendent to an immanent Godhead; a communal to an individual perspective of faith; and a firm to an open interpretation of gospel truths.  St. B’s may be the goodie-two-shoes in the larger family, but I’ll take it. And I’ll take the mavericks and the rebel rousers as well.  We’re just one big happy, messy family of which I’m proud to be a part.

As a bonus, I’m learning all kinds of fascinating and scandalous church history.  Did you know that the forefather of the Anglican tradition is….Henry VIII?  Yes my friends, not the tormented and grace-centric Luther, or Paul’s lineage  (The Pope), or even Constantine but the gregarious playboy Henry VIII.  Apparently he needed a profession of faith a little more chill than Catholicism so he could divorce his non-male-producing first wife. My church was founded on a man who wanted a license to get a divorce.  Awesome. And humbling.  Even so, like many of God’s curious redemptions, a beautiful creed was drawn from this powerful soap opera and said creed has marked my heart to God’s heart in a really profound and beautifully mysterious way. 

Because I’m not feeling particularly spiritual or sentimental right now I’ll leave you with this billboard that I saw.  I posted it about a year ago but it’s worth re-posting, especially in light of our spiritual powerhouse, Henry the VIII and his -yes, count them- six wives. 

Oink, oink

When my best friend and I are talking about all the limitations and nuances in life and relationships, we both marvel and laugh at the fatalism that often seems to beset us.  One of her favorite things to say is, "I can't even get arrested around here!"  I think this picture best expresses our shared sentiment.

Do you ever just feel like a Jewish pig in a Christian world? 

Wanna run?

I'm all kinds of happy right now because the sun is out and it feels like running season again in our great Volunteer State.  I went for my first official outdoor run of the season last week with my friend Alayna.  I had a rehearsed speech that I pulled out during our slow and steady 5k, about being head strong when training for an event (we're doing the 1/2 marathon) and the importance or reaching within ourselves for the discipline to maintain and endure a training schedule (versus solely counting on each other for motivation). I spieled on and on about the fun of running culture, the tenacity it takes, the gratification of being physically able to pick up and go for a 5 mile run with any given running buddy, and the self-satisfaction of going into the summer undaunted by a bathing suit.  

She asked if she was going to have to endure my pep talks every time we go running.  

And then we mostly stopped talking because we both had cramps.

Alayna is excited about the catered brunch she's planning for after the marathon.  

I say, whatever inspires you... use it!!  

Personally, I'm inspired by the long awaited sun, the other bundled up runners on Belmont Blvd., and waking up my ritual of throwing on my Saucony's and going on a thirty minute sprint with my friends or Ipod, always feeling better about myself (and my body) in the after-shower.

Deep and not so much

It’s Saturday night and I’m home alone.  It’s nice actually.  I don’t often spend weekends solo and in front of the TV, scanning channels for funny movies whilst eating a half box of “low-fat” cookies and slurping down hot tea, my dunking standby when I’m out of milk.  The Wedding Crashers may be one of the funniest movies of the decade.  My Saturday night crush is Owen Wilson.  I'm muting the commercials; and blogging. 

Lately, in an effort to entertain myself, I’ve been turning phrases around in my head.  Example: There IS enough time.  You actually do complete me. “I’m so curious, what were you thinking?” versus  “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???” And my swimming self-talk: I DO swim fast enough.  It’s literally fast enough. Not fast.  But fast enough to not drown. And that’s enough.

I’ve also been thinking about people from the Bible. Usually when I read the bible these days (or years), it’s people-centric.  I’m not moved by platitudes or moral lessons, but rather personal journey’s, strategies, tragedy and triumph.

Example: When I get discouraged I think about Joseph.  I actually think about him, his person. I imagine him as a daddy’s boy, all happy and chill, prancing around with the confidence of a child who knows he’s loved, in his coat of many colors.   And then, in the middle of a ho-hum day with his brothers he gets the total shaft.  They put him in a well.  They steal his coat.  They leave him.  When I imagine what he felt all I can think is that he must have been scared to death and confused.  What was he to do? In a well, alone, unequipped emotionally to deal with the layers of meaning in this evil, unequivocal act of his siblings. In his life, prior to being dumped in a well, it doesn’t appear that there was much ambivalence.  Perhaps he knew he was daddy’s favorite, but experiencing life as “the fave” is not quite as complex as being the one that is not the favorite.  I would imagine he had a sort of Hallmark empathy towards his siblings. If I was the brother I might have wanted to throw him in the well too.  I’d like to think I wouldn’t actually do it though!  So there is Joseph, totally freaked and confused and frightened and alone.

And I think about all the transitions and transactions between the well toss and the moment, 30 years or so later, when he forgave his brothers.  I am awed by all the tragedy, temptation, growth, maturity and acceptance that took place, transforming and transitioning him to a posture of pardon.

Mainly though –right now anyway—I’m thinking about how his life was changed by one lone event. And that’s a radical thought to me as I reflect back to my own story.

My life was changed by one event as well, although not really Bible worthy. I fell in love and moved to Nashville, TN from Small Town, ID at age 18.  Although the boy is long gone from my world and thoughts, he’s the only real reason I ventured South.  And that one collective decision—made by my parents, X and me—to pack up my 1988 Camry, drive across the country with X and set up shop in Nashville, has changed the entire course of my life.  Now I live 2,000 miles plus from my entire west coast family, have learned and integrated into a different culture, have had opportunities I would not have dreamed possible in my rural years, and so on.  It’s surreal to think about how many days can run together and then, every now and again, we stumble on something big, usually unwittingly, and it totally realigns our stars. 

Random, reflective and rambling, I know. I’ll leave you with some sage love guidance from my favorite wedding crasher: Love is when the soul finds its counterpoint in another. And, for good measure, (or perhaps said quote's counterpoint): Love doesn't exist.  That's what I've been trying to tell you guys.  And I'm not just picking on love...I don't think friendship exists either.

Inauguration Day

I’m catching little snippets of our countries history today, in-between clients.  I’m struck, as I often am, by the grand paradox of the monumental and the ordinary coalescing in my world.  The immediate (of my clients) juxtaposes with the immense in DC: as always, everything belongs.  And I’m feeling the Yes We Can synergy, as many of you are.  Although I'm just on a normal hour-long lunch break—computer in lap and a half-eaten bowl of pureed soup on my right, in my quiet little therapy office–my heart is on Capitol Hill with the millions of hopefuls and their respected hopes.  I know Obama is not God for those of you suspect of the excessive enthusiasm from his supporters.  I’ve never worshiped him, (although I do have a healthy President/minion crush on him) and yawn at the stragglers still claiming that his charisma has hoodwinked America.  What I like about this man is that he, like our other great leaders including Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela, doesn’t direct people back to himself.  He leads people deeper into their own selves, their own greatness and their own potential.  He is a catalyst of inspiration that stirs and motivates people out of their own social, political and even spiritual malaise.  Like most great leaders, I believe he has the potential to navigate a movement that doesn’t induce co-dependence on himself but rather inter-dependence on our God, each other and our systems of government. He does not lack curiosity or revere anti-intellectualism as a connection with the common folk, disregarding his God-given acumen.  And in the reverse, he’s not highbrow, unapproachable and pedantic, the obnoxious underbelly to academia.  He’s the perfect brand of temperance for our culture right now and his enthusiasm for this country is as far reaching as my petite, unassuming self, sitting in a small, quiet Franklin office, in-between clients and thinking about how I can play my part in these changing times.  

Poetry and birthdays

This morning I got up early, after falling asleep at the blessed 10:00 p.m. hour last night.  I was thinking about my blog and how I've lost my mojo for said writing outlet.  Some things come, some things go, some things last until they fade or get replaced --a rather elusive process, really.  But here's a poem and a few words about Mr. King, whose real birthday is today.  I liked waking up to both writings in my inbox this early morning. 

Having Confessed

by Patrick Kavanagh

Having confessed he feels


That he should go down on his knees and pray


For forgiveness for his pride, for having


Dared to view his soul from the outside.


Lie at the heart of the emotion, time


Has its own work to do. We must not anticipate


Or awaken for a moment. God cannot catch us


Unless we stay in the unconscious room


Of our hearts. We must be nothing,


Nothing that God may make us something.


We must not touch the immortal material


We must not daydream to-morrow's judgment—


God must be allowed to surprise us.


We have sinned, sinned like Lucifer


By this anticipation. Let us lie down again


Deep in anonymous humility and God


May find us worthy material for His hand.

"Having Confessed" by Patrick Kavanagh, from Collected Poems. 

It's the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr., born in Atlanta, Georgia, in 1929. He was a minister in Montgomery, Alabama, 26 years old, when he was chosen to lead a boycott of segregated buses. He didn't set out to become civil rights activist, and he said later that if he'd known what the job would entail, he might have turned it down. He wasn't even sure he wanted to become a preacher. As a teenager, he thought that the way people shouted and made noise in his Baptist church was embarrassing. 

But during the bus boycott, during which he was assaulted and arrested and his house was bombed, he experienced what he described as a religious conversion. He realized that the civil rights movement was greater than King himself, greater than his own doubts, and that he had to act like a charismatic figurehead, even if he didn't feel like one. He said: "As I became involved, and as people began to derive inspiration from their involvement, I realized that the choice leaves your own hands. The people expect you to give them leadership."

2008: The Witching Hours

A little New Years trivia:  In Mexico, people eat one grape with each of the 12 clock chimes at midnight, and make a wish for the coming year. In Venezuela, they wear yellow underwear for a year of good luck. In Japan, people eat soba because long thin noodles symbolize longevity, and at midnight, temple bells ring 108 times, matching the 108 attachments in the mind that need to be purified before the New Year. And in Thailand, where I personally brought in 2007, the village people (literal village people) make a bon fire, circle dance and chant around said fire, eating sticky rice out of bamboo sticks.  (Yeah, that was pretty cool.) And here - we just try to find the best party, the best party dress, and hope to get a nap in before the festivities. Or is that just me?

I'm haven't been a New Years resolution kind of girl in recent years, for no particular reason. That said, today I found myself swearing off this bloody sugar addiction of mine...tomorrow, of course.  My general sense of discipline, usually a conviction of self-care coupled with the natural laws of cause and effect, has gone AWOL (absent without official leave) and I'm indulging every fatty, sugary craving I have, to the point of sabotage!  SO THANK GOD I have an excuse to stop this madness, the excuse being 2009, and hopefully the ole' New Years resolution gig will last beyond the sentiment.  And my thighs, waist line and head space will be all the better for it.

Hope you sail into the New Year with grace, ease and an evolving sense of personal style and humor.  Friction is soooo 2008.

Happy New Year to ALL, (someecard style).

2008, the abridged visit

I’m sitting here in a quiet moment, taking stock of 2008.  I’m home with my sweet one-year-old niece; her parents (my brother) and my parents took an overnight trip to San Diego and Eva and I opted to stay behind in Arizona.  Well, Eva is one-years-old so really I made the decision for us both.  After a lovely morning of baby smiles and coos she’s resting and I’m reflecting.  Another year has passed.  I’m remembering last Christmas, what was on my mind a year ago, and the favorite and not so favorite moments that have come and gone since then.  I’m thinking about the ebb and flow of relationships in 2008, some new, some staid and true, some severed (sadly), and some revitalized from days of yore.  I’m remembering surprises and laughing jags that brought me to tears, like when my friend Jory was in town this summer and told Rebecca and I his perspective on the pervasive powers of Internet porn.  Or when my friend Chance unwittingly mixed the lemon/oil based marinade in the butternut squash soup that I’d made for a dinner party of eight and Krista, in her sincere and curious Krista way, inquired; “Did you use lemon thyme?”  Of course the soup was gross and ruined but the night went down in the books.  Or last Saturday morning when sweet Matt picked up dog crap out of my neighbor’s car with his bare hands and flicked it into the grass, in a chaotic moment of airport rush and problem (or rather, poop) solving.  (That one is still fresh but edging up to really funny every day.)

I’m remembering things that I’ve cried over this past year: A little heartbreak, some misunderstandings, disappointments, insensitive words, anxiety over finances and an investment that has me in over my head. I’ve been hurt by some people that I care about and whom care about me. I’ve perpetrated hurt as well.    

There are some favorite books and meals and thoughts and therapy moments that come to mind.  Favorite people.  Favorite Saturday nights. Favorite songs.  Favorite runs and bike rides. Summer fun in Idaho. Myriad in-betweens.

Overall it’s been a good year.  I’m feeling pretty good, relaxed and in stride with the life that I propagate day in, day out.  I’m glad Obama won the election.  As my friend Matt would say, it’s good to be on the right side of history, when looking back.  I like a few of the slogans that have shaped my personal zeitgeist in 2008, namely: Go Green, God is not a Republican or a Democrat and I Need Africa More Than Africa Needs Me.

My friend Mayz told me a few years back that it’s good to set an intention for your new year.  Last year my intention was “accept and receive”.  As I look back I was able to accept what was, what is, and to better receive that which came my way.  It’s a loaded phrase, accept and receive; it embodies two key ideologies: surrender and staying open.  May 2009 find you in a posture of both surrender and openness, with the discernment and courage to carry the paradox of said posture. 

Reflective mood: check.  I’ll return to wit and droll shortly, I promise.  Cut me some slack; I’m in baby mode! And even boys know that nothing generates sentimental ruminations more than a sweet-tempered bambino.  Merry Christmas my friends.

Quotidian lapse

I can’t remember the last time I sat down, with time on my side, to leisurely blog.  Life is funny in the way that it blows in from a side door sometimes, with its many demands; we inadvertently put the things most dear to us, life-giving things (like writing—or blogging), on hold.  I’ve been busy with the generic moments of life.  And some holiday extra.  The ideological romance of my inner-world has been trumped with the pragmatic external world and duties; after the ecstasy, the laundry, no? I’ve been thumbing through cookbooks and making weekly deposits at the Farmers Market and cooking and cleaning and wrapping and writing cards and returning calls and typing up invoices and listening and sometimes pleasure reading and “getting-together” and half-heartedly training for a ½ marathon and walking my dog in the cold.  Currently my hands are weary from peeling 20 apples and zest-ing two large oranges and a lemon.  After this 20 minutes writing retreat I have to peel and shred 10 potatoes.  For a progressive women and quasi-feminist, I sure am in the kitchen a lot! I’m making potato latkes and applesauce for my supper club tonight.  The theme is German (although, as I’ve researched my contribution to the meal, potato latkes are suspiciously consumed around Hanukah – perhaps pre-WW2 Germany?)  As I write, there’s a fragrance of cinnamon and apples wafting from my oven, which is an olfactory pay-off from the carpal tunnel ensuing from said peeling,  (and zest-ing, grating and chopping, but who’s complaining?) Mostly I feel happy and generous and content these days.  And relaxed.  Maybe it’s in these times, when life just moseys on and we merely play our part –no more or less –there’s just not much to say.  And for someone like me—who is, by and large, twitterpating from one thought, emotion, person or adventure to the next—not having much to say, or write, is kinda nice. 

I hope your holiday season is going well my friends.  I hope the financial burdens of the day aren’t swallowing you whole.  I hope you are finding someone for which to have gratitude and love during this ever-bustling season.  Also, thanks to those of you that leave comments.  I do read and am honored by your words, taking note, laughing or resonating with your personal responses to my rants.  I do value this little virtual world and friendship that we’ve struck up.

Well, my break is over.  The duty (that I have chosen, so I can’t complain too much) calls. I have to go peel potatoes.  Happy Hanukah and Frohe Weihnachten for my ever-increasing audience of German-Jews.  Tonight’s revelry is dedicated to you!

Best DUI EVER

Clarity revisited

Good morning. It's Saturday!



Coffee: check;  Mother Teresa walked and happy: check;  House cleaned: check;  Hair combed: check;  The Sun Mag cover to cover: check;  Mood: check;  Body scan: check;  Weekend plans: check, check and check;  Free: check;  Fallin': check;  An old song put back into the rotation (for good measure) on a chilly, sun bleached November day: check

Exotic desire

In the mornings, if I’m waking up on track, I have a little routine.  I make a latte and go sit at my desk in my room, a little shrine I’ve created of all my favorite morning God books, a sweet-smelling candle, pictures of my favorites, and a collection of meaning-filled trinkets.  I go voodoo: I meditate with Anglican prayer beads, practice a little deep breathing, pray about my woes, the worlds woes (usually mine come first), and take stalk in the things for which I’m grateful and God is good.  This is about a 30 min ordeal.  This morning while praying the Anglican Glory to God prayer, I was distracted.  I kept thinking about exotic chocolate; 'tis true.  An exotic candy bar has hexed me and it’s busting my groove with The Almighty. 

Rewinding: A few nights ago I had a friend over for dinner.  And it was A Dinner: NY strip steak, local potatoes and vegetable fare, salad and a Francis Coppola cabernet sauvignon.  It was delicious, I must say.  After dinner I pulled out a Vosges Haut Chocolat exotic Woolloomooloo bar, (yes, that’s what it’s called) which I bought, on a whim, at The Produce Place. We moved to the couch (vino in tow of course) to revel in this after-dinner chocolate spectacle.  The chocolate bar came with eating directions, HOW TO ENJOY AN EXOTIC CANDY BAR: Taste…Place a small piece of chocolate on your tongue and press it to the roof of your mouth.  Within thirty seconds, you feel the immediate melting of hemp seeds as the tongue warms the chocolate and unveils the tropical texture of fresh organic coconut with roasted and salted macadamia nuttiness.  Feel…Hemp seeds are the true secret weapons in this scrumptious bar—packed with essential fatty acids vital to your body.  Boost your vanity too; hemp oil will provide softer skin, stronger nails and thicker hair.  Shine inside and out!  Wow! Now that’s a candy car. I’ve been bewitched by my roasted macadamia nuts, Indonesian coconut, hemp seeded, deep-milk chocolate bountiful bar of beauty every since.  Maybe it’s Gods channel to Himself, this craving a little slice of Heaven.  In real time, when we were actually savoring this delight, our sweet tasting revelry was cut short when my friends dog peed on my carpet, in front of us. Cleaning up dog urine and the dog discipline that ensues: chocolate buzz kill.  Perhaps this longing, yearning, passionate recall - is a longing for what almost was, what could've been, what was short-circuited by Charlie, my favorite goofy, dumb dog. Or maybe I'm just thinking too much. No matter, I'm going to indulge the craving with memory, integrate it with my God craving and pray for an afterlife that is akin to the Woolloomooloo Bar. Come Lord Jesus. 

God talk

I have found myself caught up in a tide of new thinking, reading and being.  As I am cleaning my interpersonal closets, taking stock of ideas and paradigms that make up my essence, along with those I’ve outgrown, I’m noticing a few things.  Namely, everything is flawed and God is still in control.

I took a public stance for Obama this election and was duly inspired when he won the presidency.  I took some heat from friends opposing his presidency, fearful of socialism and big government, fearful of rights and freedoms taken away.  One good friend (whom I deeply respect) wrote me, pleading me to not bear the “mark of the genesis of our countries transition from democracy to socialism.”  Obviously, there’s no need to defend myself or my positions, at this point.  Furthermore, this type of rhetoric rarely compels me to think differently about a subject. I’m not motivated by fear, (although I know many people are, so "A" for effort).  I’m not one to dig my feet in the sand, as my friend did as our texting continued, with statements (from him) like, “I will never have anything in common with …” I’m not wired that way.  As a therapist I’m almost always flexible with ideas, situations, sometimes even morality. My fundamentalist friends would worry over this, feeling that if I don’t stand for something I’ll fall for anything.  ABSOLUTES. I would argue I stand for lots of things and I do believe in absolute truths.  But what I’m discovering is that when we become ideologues, zealots on a mission for truth and justice, usually we loose the plot (or the “absolute” truth) along the way.  We get lax on the big picture, becoming short-sited. We stop caring for the pregnant women in our fury to keep their unborn babies alive (even though I find it curious that after they’re born, we often hold them in contempt for being a part of the problematic system we call welfare; they morph from helpless victims to contributors to the massive entitlement problem.) We fight for “conservatism” and yet we have no sense of truly conserving: less water, energy, plastic, fuel; we are by and large consumers, with little if no moral conviction on this issue.  We are suspicious of environmentalism (although we fight tooth and nail to teach creationism in schools); we scoff at conserving dying breeds of animals nor do we desire a little slice of dignity for industrialized farm animals.  We yawn at the thought of 15 chickens cooped up in a little cage, unable to move themselves, much less their wings, because after all, they’re just chickens, which doesn't dial in as "living creatures" but merely poultry to marinate.  (I’m not a vegetarian, by the way.) And yet, paradoxically, we marvel at the God of the universe, the Creator of every living thing, His artistic hand in the variations of plants, bugs, animals, landscapes and human beings.  It feels inconsistent to me –so much regard for God; so little regard for his creation.  It's as if the culture of Evangelical Christianity has a multiple personality disorder.

I’ve had to repent. Little by little, I find myself evolving in ways where it seems there’s no turning back. I’ve had to grieve my own contribution to living foolishly or naively, living primarily for myself, my eyes closed, my feet deep in sand, my arguments honed, calculated and devoid of real compassion or empathy (there are varying brands that look oh so real!).  I’ve had to repent of my own Savior-complex, my hubris.

(This is my story, not yours. Please resist from defending yourself or feeling manipulated into guilt; shame is not my intention. It’s just my journey, out loud. Just take on what resonates, give me -or yourself- grace on the rest.)

It was a complicated choice to make, voting for a president that in many ways goes against the grain of my upbringing, my moral stance on abortion and both my contribution to and appreciation of small business and small government.  But for reasons that, again, seem neither here nor there (or maybe I’m just weary) at this point, his ticket felt like the better choice to me; it felt more consistent with the whole of me. I found myself disavowing some of the single-stance positions that have single-handedly been my guide in the past. My incentives were different this go 'round; I had a different set of priorities.

Overall, I’m finding myself less attracted to evangelical hype and dooms-day theology than I once was. I find myself connecting with God in a way that is quieter and in many ways more meaningful.  My faith is not Disneyland, as it once was; rather, it’s more like New Mexico: a desert with dramatic sunsets and unrestrained red rock canyons, where God’s love, presence, absence and mystery are a beautiful harmony of echoes, bouncing around the vast landscape that makes me who I am, makes us who we are.

Gravitas Meets Poppycock

I was talking to my close friend Jenn earlier today, who lives in New York.  She is the mother of my Godchild.   We were talking smack about politics and I was telling her about the passions that are running high here in the South in Republican camps.  Yesterday I read an onslaught of hate-press: ripped down Obama signs in my neighborhood, an ambush of misguided “socialism” and “terrorism” rhetoric slapped on our democratic hopeful, a Focus on the Family prediction from 2012 speculating that if Obama is elected the entire country will be run by gays and homeschoolers will basically go to jail, etc.  I feel respectful of the myriad opinions surrounding this election, or at least the ones that are base-lined in thoughtful estimations; it’s the fear mongering and the oddly acceptable kook-factor that is so strange to me.  Anyway, Jenn informed me that the lefties have their brand of zealots as well.  Apparently people are trying to get “conditional rental agreements” in The Big Apple so in the event that the McCain/Palin ticket wins the jack pot, they will have the option to get out of their leases and the country in a New York minute, assuming it will be run by ruthless, war-loving, greed-mongers.  It’s all nutty.   And the self-righteousness is ramped.  Each side feels vindicated from their snark, because the “other side” is so bloody off target.  I feel it most more acutely from my right-winged counterparts, assumedly because I live in the South.  But I know myself; it would be just as disheartening if I was around left-winged fanatics that presumed ALL McCain supporters were straight up idiots.  I’m not inclined to call anyone an idiot and believe that differing opinions, even strong, passionate, critical, philosophical differences are fair game.  But the haughty self-righteousness, presumptions that GOD is on a side (as if He takes sides?) and the blatant disrespect, personal attacks and name-calling from both camps? It’s simply not nice people.   I would encourage us all, before commenting in our own mind or to this blog with a “yeah, but,” to breathe in, settle down, and notice where the hate, fear, snark and arrogance is hanging out in our own respected DNAs.  And then, like with every good old-fashion, greedy sin:  pray into it, over it, under it and through it, until the internal peace treaty is made and Humility and Kindness, those shy little absent-minded virtues, are back in the saddle.  If in the end Obama and McCain can get along (as evidenced by their roast), so can we.  

Part of Watercooler Wednesday

A place to call home (for agnostics)

Apparently there is a new bus in London, carting around the doubters.  Not the atheists mind you, the statement leaves room for possibility by virtue of the word 'probably', but good ole' metro-bus riding agnostics.  Read here for further commentary. 

The More We Know

I have had an ever-increasing conviction/passion about food lately.  Not the consumption of food but rather, the genesis of that which we eat.  Each time we reach a new tipping point in awareness, “going green” for example, we have the opportunity to estimate our selves and our spirituality not merly as a personal vending machine but rather an opportunity to cultivate stewardship.  The Green campaign, in my estimation, has been a spectacular movement of creating a public conscious about the environment around us: the water we use (and waste), the fuel we burn and the products we use that can be salvaged, or recycled. Even more, it empowers us to contribute to the solution rather than the problem.  

In Barbara Kingsolver’s new book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, she walks her reader through a year’s commitment her family made to eat local fare.  Her case is both compelling and convicting.  She is not guilt-searing and preachy but rather offers up a substantive argument for why seasonal fruit and veggies along with farm raised animals enrich not only ones overall health but (and maybe even more) it serves to deepen ones sense of vitality.  In this memoir, her family decided, somewhat abstractly, that they were going to spend a year integrating their food choices with their family values, which included both “love your neighbor” and “try not to wreck every blooming thing on the planet while you’re here.”  Living in such a wealthy country, restraint has become somewhat of a milquetoast virtue.  We want what we want when we want it.  If we crave, and have the means, we get.  It’s interesting to me in the Christian community how sober-minded we are in teaching kids about the wiles and woes of premarital sex.  We talk ad nauseam over the value of waiting and how waiting until marriage will enhance the experience.  I do not take issue with this sage advice, but find it interesting that the “true love waits” campaign is often being issued from mouths that can’t even wait for the right time to eat tomatoes, but instead will consume tasteless ones all winter to satisfy a craving for everything now.  (Admittedly, I have been one of those mouths.) Waiting for the quality experience has slipped away from American food customs and, like with going green or alternative energies, the first step in shifting a paradigm is always awareness. 

I know as a therapist that when our personal psychology is laden with meaning, significance and purpose, we are apt to feel less depressed, dis-eased and ADD.  We’re not looking for virtual realities to fill the voids when actual reality is vibrant.  And I believe that reality can only be vibrant when it’s real.  When we see the connections in all things—our animals and food, our planet and environment, our neighbors and friends—we can see our place in this beautiful God-given life; we can join in the collective journey of caring for life (in all forms-plants, animals, humanity), respecting our God-given environment and genuinely loving others.  

Read here if you still care or want to go down this rabbit hole with me. I will have to say, and I don’t presume to make this choice for anybody else, that thinking through the things that I eat is changing my emotional landscape.  I am starting to feel a genuine sense of respect  and gratitude for the lamb or chicken that gave it’s life for my nourishment.  Of course this only enhances my enjoyment of said meat. Life for life: this is the crux of the Christian story.  It would make sense that we would honor this system in every form -even meal on plate- with a sense of awareness and, in turn, a thank you.  And from my experience the posture of gratitude is generally a surefire, no matter the impetus.  

Farmers Market in Nashville

information on CAFO's (concentrated animal feeing operations)

McCain Roasts Obama At Alfred E. Smith Dinner

For those of  you that missed the roasts, these are fun.  Obama apologizes for his "awesomeness" and the senators with whom he "pals" around. McCain is in jovial form as he confesses that "maverick he can do, but messiah is beyond his pay-grade."  And his commentary of Bill Clinton's ecumenical  spirit is humor at its finest.   

Obama Roasts McCain at Al Smith Dinner

YES WE CAN! (One kidney at a time.)

I can't sleep because every time I try my (effing!) sore throat wakes me up.  Last night I tried to outwit it and took an Ambien.  Throughout the night there was still a sword fight in my neck region, I was just too comatose to get up and do anything about it. Then, to add insult to injury, this morning that little blue sleeping aid outwitted me! I slept through my first client. Awesome. And so professional. So tonight I practically OD'd on ibuprofen and still feel duped.  I'm not dead and I'm not pain free. I'm just awake (with possible liver damage). 

So after all the trying-to- drift-off tricks, I did the old half-awake standby; I decided to go on-line. I am perusing weird and funny shtick, perhaps my version of late night porn.  And I found THIS.  Granted, I have loosened on my Republican roots this election and have caught much flack for it, both above and below the belt, but I think this is a nugget of bi-partisan fodder that we can all say what-the-freak too.  

I'm on a bridge to nowhere....

Wordsmithery

Words – I’ve always been a student of them.  And I go on word jags.  Jag, for example, is one of my word jags.  In short, it means “spree”.  In grad school I clicked in with quintessential.  In every paper I wrote, I somehow integrated the word quintessential.  The quintessential story or, It was the quintessential experience. It was quintessential ad nausea. Blech!  I think in my psychological questing (yes, it was a verb for me) I was always looking for that “thing” representing the perfect example of class or quality: quintessential.

Recently I’ve taken to the words uber and snarky.  My BFF pointed out uber to me.  “Ang, you say uber in all your wine articles these days.”  Über cool. Über chic. Über this, über that. Apparently, I've been in uberdrive.

Snark is my current jag. So much of the political banter comes up as snark, or people make snarky comments, or I don’t want to dip into snark, but…  Über and snark are more readily found in the Urban Dictionary, for inquiring minds.  They are sass words. 

Throughout the years a few more favorites I can recall are: assuage, conflate (always looking for words that bring things together), amalgamate, genuflect, elusive and smack talk.  Oh, I got into ineffable last summer too.  Ineffable: something that cannot or should not be expressed in spoken words.  “The tranquility of light jazz coupled with a panoptic view of rolling hills and young vineyards spawned an ineffable sense that all is right with the world.” I wrote that in an article for The Nashville Wine Press last summer. As I reread it, it seems as if I was hoping to describe the quintessential setting, but I think I’d already used that word in another paragraph.

It’s interesting how we take to words like favorite songs, soft drinks or sweet cravings. I will discover a word and incorporate it, in an unconstrained manner, until I’m sick of hearing said word roll off my tongue or show up in my writings. I create my own clichés.

What words do you love?  What words take hold and spin you around for a while? What words did you crush on, get over, and put in the giveaway pile?  

Balancing whine and wine

I’ve been on an intensity overload lately.  Being a therapist can do that to you.  It’s not that all the stories are sad (although many of them are); rather, they are all, on some level, intense. And as the paid listener, I’m intense – intensely listening for themes, tragedy, hope, truth, b.s., motives, presence, dissociation, silence, words, etc. Imagine a morning of that, and then throw a phone call with my mother in the mix; my mom who just got home from Africa and tells me, unabridged, about the overpopulated orphanages, what a firsthand account of the AIDS epidemic does to you, and how most of the continent lives on “seema”, a corn maize flour– which has about as much nutritional value as cream-of-wheat, except without the milk.  Of course this poverty newsflash dials in moments after I had scheduled a massage because my shoulders hurt. Awesome.

Then, to add insult to injury, I am becoming increasingly sensitive about animal rights. As in (I know this is odd) I had to blink out tears the other day at the grocery when I was buying a leg of lamb for a dinner party. For my mental health (that I prefer stays in tact at Whole Foods) I had to cognitively push back the inhumane stories about veal not being able to sit down EVER (as in their entire life) because they don’t want to toughen the meat for the consumer. If I believed in karma I’d swear I was a baby calf in my past life. And then there are the other brutal realities in the meat packing industry that have decided to camp out in my conscious little mind, and haunt me. Thanks past life, for this newfound conviction that my culinary pleasures are fostered by sadistic treatment of animals. 

And don’t even get me started on puppy mills.

But thankfully, falling makes me laugh.  It makes me laugh really hard. When people loose their footing I bust my gut.  It’s just one of those things I guess.  I know, on some level, I’m laughing at somebody else’s expense.  Lucky for me, I don’t see it on that level.  I just see it as hysterical.  Other gaffes make me laugh too, like when someone spills ketchup on their shirt or starts to sing a spoken liturgy, or like in this video, when somebody (the newscaster) furrows their brow and “does” sincerity insincerely, insinuating that a fall is NOT funny; feigning concern.  Feigned concern—very comical.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps my humor is on the wack side of normal as well. 

I saw this little gem on my friend Jason’s blog.  His commentary on the grapes of wrath is almost as funny as the actual video.  

So here's the moral to this story: sometimes we get to drink the grapes; sometimes we have to smash them; and sometimes they just smash us. 

Blue and Red in a Gray World

Last night was the long anticipated presidential debates at Belmont University.  Although not present at the debates, I was on the second tier of elitism (not really), shuffled to The Ryman Auditorium for a public watching of this historic town hall meeting in Nashville.  Increasingly seduced by the political synergy in the air, I was very excited to go.  I found an arm decoration that was equally jazzed and we joined the other political enthusiasts in this former church to watch McCain and Obama duke it out on the big screen.  That said, the duel felt more like a scrimmage.  We’ve seen it all.  We’ve heard it all.  For those of us that have been keeping score there was nothing new or noteworthy; no big epiphany; no “ahha” or “no way”.  McCain fans clap when McCain talks about his policy; Obama devotees shout out to him in predictable rhythms.  The experience was fun, being at a venue where people seemed to care, weren’t solely disenchanted, cynical or taking cheap shots at their counter-party.  But the actual debates? —A little bit of a snoozer.  My vote: Lets vote already! I fear this next month.  I feel for my McCain loving friends, as their states seem to be slipping and sliding into Obamarama.  I do not anticipate all the snarky rhetoric that inevitably comes with trying to stay afloat.  I have loved this process but I’m ready for it to be over now.  I’m ready for everyone to just be friends again and for round-table discussions to down shift.  I’m ready for the changing of the guards.

Historia de un letrero (History of a sign)

This is the most beautiful invitation to humanity and free will I've seen in a long time, maybe ever.

(Read my comments after watching the video! Don't want to spoil anything.)

This video has been the tipping point for a new way of seeing, for me. Notice the signs. Notice the “two choice dilemma” in the first sign, essentially “obey or disobey.” Notice that in the second sign the passerby’s are not told to do anything; rather, he/she is simply informed of a contrast. The passerby simply finds a “situation” to address and is a free agent of his/her own will. There is a creative freedom at play in the second sign. May we all have eyes to see and feel empowered in our own creativeness when we encounter “the second sign”.

Thanks to Alonso at Wannafilms for creating it and Dr. Jamie Kyne for presenting it at the NPI Fall Symposium. Some of my commentary above is adapted from his.

Part of Watercooler Wednesday

Continuum

I have had a full weekend, in the most delicious sense.  Intellectual stimulation, good food, lush ambience, old friends—staid and true, new friends, lingering conversations, spiritual connection, communion, a great movie, more good food, more good friends, heaps of laughter: The sum of what makes life good spontaneously shaped my entire weekend.  Waking up this morning my prayers went something like this: Uh, just thank you Lord. 

And I am truly grateful.  Life isn’t always this generous.

I am coming to realize that when life does bless us, with it’s very substance, it’s usually unprompted by us.  It has more to do with us being open to what is versus creating what is.  This is sometimes hard for me.  I am not by nature controlling but I am by nature ambitious, and often times I don’t allow for the space—the in-between, the “nothingness”—in which spontaneous love, desire, awareness, fun, et al springs forth. 

You can learn the moves and dance your technical booty off but it’s not until you feel the music that the dance takes over and your body is merely a catalyst.  Or art: When art is true, you notice it over the artist. It transcends the artist because it’s no longer about the artist.  I think the same is true with the human spirit.  When we can just live out of our substance (or essence), without forcing, trying, defending, having to be right, in control or in the know, the freedom in which our spirits live prompts beauty:  Beauty in relating, beauty in seeing, beauty in knowing, beauty in just be-ing.  Beauty looks like cutting up with a friend; it looks like laughter.  It looks like toasting a glass of wine engaging in effortless dialogue about this or that.  It looks like the affection that swells up inside of us for another person when we are face to face, creating a new moment, inviting that person into our own story.  Beauty is being present. 

I encourage all of us to keep our eyes open to the moments of beauty that make up our lives, our stories.  Especially now, in light of the political and economic gravitas in our country, it’s important to be mindful of the little things—like a great weekend, for example.  And it's important to live out of the generosity we receive, to love other people into their own significant and beautiful moments. 

(The picture above is of little Juliet Jasko, at my birthday party, getting ready to feast on a cupcake from Ivey's Cakes.)

Win, Loose or Draw

Tonight, while friends on both sides of this political poker game will be making merriment over debate-parties and biased smack talk, I have a prior engagement.  Sadly, I will be taping the VP debates.  I have a few friends whose opinions resonate with my own, this guy being one of them.  He and I have been in an ongoing dialogue about the candidates this year, trying the best we can to observe pros and cons in both parties, trying to stay open and unbiased, which is next to impossible this close to the actual elections. But we’re giving it the good, ole’ fashioned bi-partisan effort.  This morning he sent me an email summarizing the basic biblical, ethical and moral bylaws to which we’ve collectively given ourselves, in determining our presidential picks.  Thought it might be helpful to share:

Guiding principles:

1. Two most important things are to love God and Neighbors
2. We cannot LOVE both God and LOVE money & possessions.
3. Do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with God

Application:

Stewardship: of creation, and it's resources of air, water, earth, oil, etc (aka environmentalism, earth care, etc)
Dignity of Life: unborn and at risk children, the poor, the discriminated, marginalized (black, immigrants, etc)
Money/Economy: work-based, quality-driven products, fair wage, not slave to lender (credit) based, not hoarding wealth, not driven by greed, generosity, caring about the common good
Peace/War: active "peace making", respect for all people groups as equal, Matthew 18 principle of direct talks with adversary, last-resort: a just war
Justice: Advocate for victims and punish based on God's moral laws 
Healthcare: Compassion and healing was core ministry of Jesus  
 
What would you add or take away from the list?

The Banana God

Wow. I have to say - I never thought Kurt Cameron would make me blush but this actually did. I considered not posting it, wondering if it's too scandalous, but then I remembered that I actually saw it on this guy's site, and he just wrote a book about being a Christian or something and his book looks really interesting and well, if he could post it, so could I. So, somewhat sheepishly, I've decided to share because in this scenario my funny sensibilities (although admittedly sophomoric) outweigh my modesty sensibilities, not that that's a good thing.  And of course it poses the question: Why are Christians so goofy when it comes to sex?

St. Francis of Assissi

Question of the day: Where does peace begin?

Francis' warnings to his followers are apt for peacemakers and those working for justice in our day:  "While you are proclaiming peace with your lips, be careful to have it even more fully in your heart. Nobody should be roused to wrath or insult on your account. Everyone should rather be moved to peace, goodwill, and mercy as a result of your self-restraint. For we have been called for the purpose of healing the wounded, binding  up those who are bruised, and reclaiming the erring." (The Legend of the Three Companions) 

An Interuption

I’m sorry to leave you hanging but I’ve lost my mojo with my psychological posts in light of the current financial calamities.  I’ll get back to it, I promise. Being affected directly from this crisis, as the not-so-proud owner of two homes, one in which I live and one that just sits there vacant, (with very little public interest for purchase or renting) casting the shadow of a heavy mortgage that I reluctantly pay each month, I feel vulnerable to the depressed state of our economy.  I feel weary of Wall Street posturing, blaming, projections, greed and power.  I, along with many of you, would be swooned by a simple act of contrition. Along with the bailout, how about an apology?

Relationships: The Hardest Kind

For this next one I’m going to mix and mingle Dr.Hantman’s words with my own.  In no way do I want to steal her copyright so please go check out her site if you feel the need to differentiate.  But after reading her post I think it would be helpful to clarify or expound on a few things, hence, my own little two cents. Tomorrow I will post on what she deems "The Easiest" type of relationship.

The Hardest: Fairness, Justice and Equality:

I have found this style of relating to be the most confusing because it seems like the most compelling.  It seems so rational.  And it is.  And if what you want is to be respected, accommodated or understood, this may be your model. (I know it’s been mine more than I care to admit.)  If being desired is what you long for, “communication”—in the way we promote it in modern-day pop-psychology—is  not the answer. Communication does not generally generate desire.  It generates compromise.  (I’ll get into the myth of compromise in a bit.)

This is the kind of relationship that everyone today is raised to think is the best.  For many people it’s worthwhile.  They have no complaints and they end up being grateful that they chose to hammer out all the issues all the time.  I counsel many couples who want to learn the language of the hardest so that instead of communicating destructively while they’re working for equality, they learn to communicate constructively while working hard for equality.

Couples come into counseling wanting to have more harmonious relationships.  I offer them the easiest harmonious or the hardest harmonious.  Since the easiest is alarming to most people, they choose the hardest.

The hardest relationships involve explaining, educating, reforming, logical arguing, making requests for changes in partner’s personality, relating intimately and honestly all the time instead of carefully chosen times, compromising, fairness in dividing chores and child-care tasks, and learning to understand each other’s areas of vulnerability. 

Very important: In order to succeed at the hardest, both people have to be equally willing to do all of the work.  As soon as one slacks off, the other has even harder work, getting the partner back on board (or “hounding,” “harassing,” “encouraging,” threatening”) with the relating emotionally, compromising, splitting chores and so on.

In most relationships it’s the guy who slacks off and the woman who bitches.  Even when the woman works outside the home she’s still the one who is more willing to parcel out time to relate intimately and so on. (This is by no means the rule.)

A few words on compromise: Even compromise has consequences. Strangely, most therapists really do believe in the idea of compromise without consequence.  This is crazy.  Except for minor issues, compromises are not made without undermining feelings of love and interest in the relationship.  People only change when they want to change, not because someone, even someone they love madly, asks them to.  If they do make the change it's generally inauthentic, pacifying the change-requesting partner. More so, when change does not come from personal integrity, conviction and/or desire for growth, its bred out of passive/aggressive motives, not loving ones. Many therapists believe that requests can be made, can be carried through, and will lead to more love, not less.  This isn’t reality.  If a person decides to ask the other to change something significant, he or she must be willing to tolerate the partner’s loss of interest in the relationship, each time another request is made, and especially if it is carried out because of a fear of loss.  Again, compromise may get you want you want, but it doesn't necessarily make you sexier or more desirable to your partner. 

Relationships: The Worst Kind

A colleague of mine has recently introduced me to a website driven by the thoughts and writings of Jean Hantman, a modern psychoanalysis.  Her perspectives are interesting albeit a little provocative and I thought I’d take a few days (posts) to align myself with the “psychology” portion of my header, and share her thoughts.  I’m going to highlight excerpts from her musings on relationships over the weekend. She has a three-pronged approach to love-relationships: The Worst, The Hardest and The Easiest.  I’ll start with The Worst.  I find this style of relating to be both subtle and pervasive.  I see it in some of my friends’ marriages (and failed marriages).  I also see it in my office.  Stay tuned for her other approaches as I’ll share them over the weekend. (Note that this is a gender-neutral philosophy and I’m using the he/she in the roles that are most common, but not exclusive.)

The Worst:

The worst relationships involve submission out of balance. Although at first glance it might not seem that he is submitting, because these relationships involve a great deal of fighting and bitterness, in the end he always, I mean always, gives in to what she wants. What she wants is not love, not giving it or getting it. She wants control. She feels chaotic and vulnerable when she isn't in charge, so much so that she sacrifices love and loving for the sake of being in charge. The submissive husband (or partner in same-sex couples) eventually appears to give up any individuality as he submerges himself in his wife's opinions, tastes, and ways of doing things from simple to complex.

                   

A submissive husband sounds great to a lot of women. Like I've heard women say,"So-and-so bosses her husband around, and he does everything she wants, and he adores her."

                            
“Oh Joe, get me another drink will you?" 

or               

 "Ha ha, if you think you're going out with your friends tonight you must be out of your mind."

                   

As the therapist to many men in relationships like this, I can assure you that in no way does he adore her. Of course in public he has to appear to adore her. He already feels worn-down and hopeless, so do you think he'll admit he detests her because of her abnormally controlling personality and his unwillingness to assert himself?

Of all types of relationships, this is the one that leads men to find girlfriends to love. These men who get mistresses/girlfriends because they crave affection and love have wives who aren't as opposed to the situation as you might imagine, as long as it's not in her face.

                   

 Why wouldn't she care very much? Because, as noted above, she is less interested in love than in control. So after she establishes her dictatorship, she's content. Most women whose husbands seek love from other women (or if sexual deceiving is against his morals, he'll turn his passion and attention to other activities like work) don't care as long as she doesn't hear about it, and as long as he keeps obeying her commands about how to put clothes away, what temperature to keep the thermostat, what time to be home at night, how to vote, what to do on Saturday night etc.

 

At some point she might start caring. This usually happens when her children are grown and gone and for some reason she can't figure out, they, as well as her husband, don't want to be around her much. Then some of these women, in the worst relationship, of their own making, start to feel pain or confusion because they realize their husbands have no interest in them. He obeys, he follows her orders but he's always waiting for the next time he can get away from her, can't wait to get back to the exciting thing she drove him to by her utter lack of interest in his needs, or who he is, or what he thinks about things. I know women who come to therapy in their early 40s-50s and swear they're interested in their husband's opinions. They think he's "depressed" because he doesn't seem to have any opinions. He only wants to know what hers are. This type of woman is completely unconscious that the reason he's "depressed" and has no opinions is because for the past thirty years she gave him the feeling that she's right, she's smarter, she knows better not only about how to raise children but about politics, too. She gave him no space to think or talk for thirty years and now she wonders why he only comes alive when she's not around, or deliberately when she's around but it’s something she has no part of or enjoys.

Eventually she doesn't get her way anymore because he's dead to her. After you succeed at killing your slave, you're the master of ?

Old dreams, new dreams

My dream at one time was to get a private therapy practice up and running.  I had an idea of the “sorts” of people I wanted to work with, or rather with whom I’d be a “good fit.”  I remember a collegue, with the best of intentions, telling me, “You need to work with X population.  That’s where you will initially get clients.”  While his advice was sound, I respectfully didn’t take it. I didn’t want to pigeon-hole myself to X, or be known as the person who works with X.  I wanted to work with X, Y and Z, knowing that my best self would surface in the diversity of my work; I would be better for X if I could also understand Y and Z.  My intuitive response to my impending career, coupled with determination and hard work, paid off.  I feel a deep sense of gratitude for this dream realized, when I have the fortitude to remember my career path in light of “the dream” that it once was. It's good to step back now and again, to realize what we can do, what we have done, especially when we are staring down the rabbit hole at that next thing we want to do.  

Contribution to Watercooler Wednesday. Check it out!

The word on the street (in Nashville) 9.21.08

Wisdom liturature

Do we write because we are happy or because we're not? A legend of the Midrash says that King Solomon wore a ring with the power to make him happy when he was sad and sad when he was happy.  Why would he want to be sad when he was lucky enough to know happiness?  Solomon was a Jew and a writer, which is to say, never content.  Is the story meant to make us laugh or cry?  To cry is to sow, said the Maharal of Prague; to laugh is to reap.

And to write is to sow and reap at the same time.

-Elie Wiesel, Memoirs - All Rivers Run to the Sea

I love Jesus but I drink a little

So, practically...

...life has been hard lately. My practical solace is Milk Duds. Emotional health: check. Spiritual well being: check. Daily life: falling apart. My new front-loading washing machine doesn’t work. It was installed improperly (diagnosed by a professional) and getting someone here to fix it has proved to be as easy and uncomplicated as French cooking.  I am sitting on a very large mortgage for an empty condo that I bought as an “investment”.  Now it’s investing in ME, blowing through my savings and basic living funds like Ike’s little tornado brother, in the banking business.  My former landlord (for my office space) is forcing me to take him to small claims court.  I accidentally paid him $640 extra and he’s avoiding my please-give-me-back-my-money calls. Lets see, my dog has fleas, now my bed does too. My headlight keeps breaking. I just fixed my water heater, air conditioner and currently have a call into a plumber.  And then, just this morning, my dog puked on my duvet cover, that I couldn’t wash because my machine is busted.  The world in which I dwell is breaking down; strangely though, I’m not breaking down with it.  I was.  A few weeks ago, when I also had an impending triathlon, I was wrought with anxiety over my condo, trying to sort and sift through the “what ifs” while keeping up with a tri-exercise routine. But today, and this week really, I have had a peace that eludes understanding cover over me, like a warm blanket in a draft.   I feel a little tired and weary of chasing down money, talking to service people and making decisions about things I know little about, but I’ve got my health and, in this moment anyway, the perspective to say: I’ve got my health. 

It’s interesting when life just doesn’t seem to work, plain and simple.  Life—the verb—shows us what we’re made of, or rather, what we’re not made of.  I am realizing during this time of financial and situational dilemma, that I am another person on a larger scale of a deescalating economy, that I am not invulnerable to financial woes and uncertainty. More so, things don’t always work, not everyone does business honestly and efficiently, and there are no guarantees. I’m also realizing that some people live like this more often than not. Some people always have things going wrong. Some people are more equipped, or perhaps wiser than I, when they are given a hand of bad luck; those people don’t feel as entitled to the good luck like I (albeit unwittingly) do.  Richard Rohr says all spirituality is marked by how we deal with our pain.   I would add that our true colors are summoned when conflict marks our lives, when injustice feels personal and when the pileup gets too heavy.  I’m trying my best to channel St. Francis of Assissi in this frustrating time, taking the beatitudes literally, trying my best to be peace-full (arghh!) in the dance of 1-800-shuffle-to-voicemail I’m in with service people and slumlords. And I’m trying to keep perspective the best I can.  It’s not easy because I’ve been spoiled in life; life generally stays on its axis in my little orb. But I keep having to remind myself that easy is not what I signed up for in the spiritual pilgrimage I call my life. And it’s never the guarantee. I signed up for staid, true, faithful, honest, loving, kind and sound.  Virtue, as a genre, is being tested in Planet Ang and well, I’ve got my health. And really, when perspective is on my side, I have a zillion other beautiful, meaningful, life-giving things as well. When it's not, it's a crapshoot.

Is the bipartisanship in this election

really this?  An interesting theory on election reality. 

Uh, Yes We Can! (?)