Someone, Please Turn On The Light

A thought comes in. If it's dark, it's all encompassing, all consuming, like a weed, it takes over until it owns me. If it's not dark, it doesn't last long, it doesn't prevail, it doesn't conquer. It is there but a minute and then it's gone again. Where did it go? Why oh why can't I get it back? The darkness I can fight against all day and all night, which only causes it to grow deeper roots and me to become completely exhausted. It's as if the fight is water mixed with the proper amount of miracle grow - just makes the darkness stronger - harder to kill. Damn it! Why does this happen? Why can't I stop it? What is so wrong with me? Do I not have education? Do I not have good life experience? Do I not have opportunity? Do I not have light within? What? What? What is wrong? Darkness loves me. Light eludes me. It hates me. It refuses to plant itself and take up residency - something I really long for. What possible reason is there to go on? To wake another day? To breathe another breath? Why? So that darkness can breed making itself more prevalent, more life consuming, more soul sucking? Breath for me is like gasoline on a fire. It spreads evil, wicked, torment, black, it feeds the demon within. Happiness, joy, love, light, laughter I cannot have. Not for more than a second or two. And those seconds grow farther and farther apart it seems. I can't remember the last time they were here with me. So long ago. I have a memory of them, but my memories grow weaker and weaker and the good gets harder to recall. Will the day come when I won't know them at all? As if they never existed? If dark has its way, that is exactly what shall become of me. Walking death. No life. No love. No happiness or joy. Only dark. Only pain. Only sorrow. I don't want that. I don't want my life to become that. Is it better to die then to go on living and letting dark have its way with me? I believe it might be. I can't find a reason to live for this - for darkness. It has stolen most of my life now. Little is left. It won't be happy until it has all of me and I can't be happy with any of it. I don't know what tools, if any, will destroy it. For if I did, I would buy a truckload and get to work. Dig, pick, pull - do whatever necessary to get it out or die trying. I'd buy tools for friends and family too and let them have a go at the life sucking demon. Does the world need people like me in order to know the good - the happiness - the joy it has? Is that my purpose here? To make life better for others? If that is so, then there must be others like me - carrying more than their fair share of darkness. I can't help but wonder whether they too have written a blog about the pain they face on a near daily basis. I wonder if they have sat in their rooms considering whether someone like me existed. Maybe we should all get together and share war stories - to see whether we can "one up" each other in the darkness department. Ha! I can visualize the party invites in my mind now. "Hey. . . does your life absolutely suck? If so, join others just like you and compare life horror stories. Yeah, come one, come all, make a new friend - someone else who can let you down on a regular basis since there's absolutely no room for happiness in that dark, fucked up life of yours. No need to RSVP (the hostess doesn't need yet another let down when your sorry ass doesn't show up) just come on over if you don't kill your worthless self first." Hmm. Maybe not. I don't see how any good could come from that sort of a party, or should I say gathering? "Party" just somehow doesn't capture the spirit of the thing. So if I can't fight the fight on my own and if there are no tools in the toolshed to kill the demons within and if a gathering of other dark-minded folks won't work, whatever should I do? Is 51 too young to die? I don't really know. Since I don't really know, maybe I should wait until I find another possible solution. In the meantime, perhaps I'll take another pill and see if I can't numb myself to the darkness. Pretend it doesn't have power. Hide from it. Fake happiness for the good of others. It's 10:30 now. If I ingest now, happiness or some fabricated form of it, should come knocking on my dark mind in about an hour.

To My Daughter

As sure as my name is Karen, I'm sure that I want me a baby girl. I just do. Think I've always wanted this - clear back as far as I can remember. When I was 12, I busied myself thinking up names for all the many children I would have one day. I believe there were eight total. Eight children! I can't even imagine it now, but at the ripe old age of 12 - when I knew everything there was to know about life and living and grown up responsibilities - I wanted 8 youngins. Summer, Tara, Heidi, Annie, Barbie, Rene, Maria, Tiffany, Jennifer, Samantha, Joshua and Michael. See why I want a baby girl? I had so many perfect names for all my many daughters, but struggled to come up with even two names for my sons. So I want a baby girl. Wanted her then and want her now. While my name selection has changed from the childlike "Summer", to a wiser, more mature list including Abigail, Betsy, Elizabeth, Jessica, Katherine, Laura, Lanie, Mallory and Scout (yes, as in To Kill a Mockingbird), not much else has changed. The idea that I would be a wonderful mother is, on most days, first and foremost in my mind. The older I get, the more I think about what I have given up. . . my ability to have a child. My body has now passed the baby-making stage and moved into the stage where I'm better suited (at least physically) to be a grandma. Ick! How I hate the thought of that. I don't want to be a grandma. I want to be a mom. A mother, a mommy, a mama, a mom, a ma. It's not natural to be a grandmother without ever having been a mom. It's just not. Least not for me it's not. If I were a mom what would I do? Above all, I would love my child unconditionally. I would let her (or him) know each and every day how much they are loved. Not only would I tell my child that I loved her, I would show her every opportunity I was given. I would "show up" when showing up meant something. To all the things that were important to her - I'd be there. I'd be the parent she could always count on no matter what. I would sing to her and play with her and dress her up in fancy clothes and play make-up. I would curl her hair and take her shopping and bake cookies with her every Sunday morning. I would set a time aside every single week that would be our "girl" time. Just she and I. We'd have a special activity that the two of us would do each and every week. I can think of at least 100 things I would enjoy doing with my daughter. But that's selfish of me, so I think I'd wait til she was old enough and then let her pick our special activity. Whatever was fun for her, then that's what we'd do. Not only would I love my child unconditionally and plan activities for the two of us, I would expose her all the religions of the world. Help her get in touch with her spiritual side. We would go to a new church or temple or synagogue or mosque every month until we found something that resonated with her. I've come to realize that spirituality is so very important. Without it, humans are like robots. I wouldn't want my child to go through life all mechanical and stiff like. I would want her to live a full, spiritual life, and I would help her discover and then embrace that part of herself. Culture is important too, I believe, to live a complete and balanced life. For this reason, my daughter and I would spend time together learning about different world cultures. We'd spend time in libraries and museums and theaters. We'd go to concerts together - everything from classical to celtic to blues and reggae. If we could afford to travel the world, then we would. Otherwise, we'd spend time learning about the four corners of the earth on a computer in the comfort of our living room. We'd wear our PJ's, snack on popcorn and read all about Bangladesh one night and Peru the next. So many things I'd love to do - to share - with my daughter. Above all, I'd consider it a privilege to get to know her. The real her. Who she is on the inside. What she loves and what she fears. What goals she has, what dreams she dreams. Who she wants to be and how she wants to get there. Above all, I'd teach my child that she is perfect - just as she is. She'd never have to apologize for what she feels or thinks or says. In my world, she would be free to be who and what she is. I'd love her unconditionally and I'd teach her - from the day of her birth - to love herself. . . unconditionally. So to my little Scout, mommy loves you madly and can't wait to get to heaven to meet you. Until then, look inside when you want to be with me, cause I'm right there. . . in your heart. . . and always will be.

A Man and His Dog at Home

Today is April 17, 2012. While driving down the road yesterday, I saw a homeless man and his little dog sitting on the side of the road. The man held a sign asking passerbys for help. The dog just sat there - hoping someone would stop to help his master. Homeless people and their signs have become so common place that I wonder how many non-homeless folks even see them. Do we look right through them? Do we turn and look away so we don't have to see them? Have we all become so callused that we can easily pretend like homeless men, women, children and their pets don't exist? Is it that we are callused or is it really a matter of fear? Maybe we - the non-homeless population - are afraid that if we look at a homeless person - really take the time to see them - that their homelessness - their dirtiness - their shame - their poverty - will rub off on us. Like homelessness is a disease one catches or something. Or maybe we are afraid that if we see the homeless, we'll be forced to do something about it. . . or worse. . .admit we can't. If I pretend you don't exist, then I'm not required to do anything, right? Yes, I believe this is the more likely scenario. People look away - refusing to see the homeless - because they fear having to do something about it. The fear, I think, is more about not knowing what to do then it is about having to do something. What is the solution? How do we as a society "fix" homelessness? Politicians, church leaders, social workers, advocates - many, many knowledgable - trained - people - have tried to find a solution, and failed. And if they can't fix the problem, how on earth can I? So I look away. I don't have an answer. I don't have a solution. I don't like to be reminded of my shortcomings, so I refuse to see you, Mr. Homeless Person. I want to sleep well at night in my big comfy bed in my toasty warm house - without guilt. And how can I do that if I see you? Hey! Homeless People! You hit a nerve in me! But not because I am afraid of you. I'm not. I'm afraid of failure. I'm afraid of my inability to find a solution. I'm afraid of not having control. I'm afraid of the unknown. It's easier to look away - pretend you don't exist - then it is to face my own fears. I fear I have failed you, Mr. Homeless Person. In fact, I know I have. I am so incredibly sorry. What can I do to fix this wrong? Maybe a place to start is on the curb, by your side, like your little dog. . . fully seeing you.

Like Jesus Did

Jesus, the way I understand him, was a really cool cat. The coolest really. Long haired, hippy freak type who probably would have voted to legalize marijuana, legalize gay marriage, open up the borders, abolish the death penalty, increase the minimum wage, and encourage educators to teach world religion and evolution in the same classroom. He lived for inclusion. He lived for relationship with others. Relationship, connectedness with people, was like air or water for him - a necessity. But not for himself. No, he was a truly selfless human. He sought out others for them for their needs. He wanted the best for others. Never was he judgmental. Any advice he gave about thoughts or feelings or behaviors, was for the benefit of others and not for himself. He met folks wherever they happened to be in their life and loved them just as they were. He didn't say, "change this, change that and then I'll love you". Nope. He just loved unconditionally. That's really hard to do by the way. Don't we all have expectations or requirements where others are concerned? Don't we all have preconceived notions or ideas about how others should look or dress or act or think? And when folks don't live up to those expectations, don't we dismiss them, walk away or let them be? All the while thinking. . . I can't, I won't love you. You just don't measure up! You're just not what I need in my life the way you are. Not Jesus. He wasn't that way. Not in the least. He sought out the sickest, the wicked, the evil, the lost and broken and said, "hey, friend, yeah you, you are special, you are unique, you are one of a kind and I need relationship with you". Can you imagine? Can you imagine someone needing you. . . just the way you are. . . all the good and all the bad. . . not asking you to conform or change in any way? Just be you and let me love you as you are. Pure, real, unconditional lover of souls - all souls. That's who Jesus was. That's who Jesus is. He was and is love. A little scary, huh? This man loved us - all of us - without condition - and then he laid down his life for us. It's hard to accept that we can receive pure love - no strings attached - because our human (fallible) minds convince us that we aren't worthy. Our human-ness stands in the way. Our flawed thinking convinces us that the world isn't capable of giving or receiving such an unassuming, amazing love. Only God - the one perfect being - is capable of such a love. Or so we tell ourselves. But human Jesus was capable. And if he was capable, then why aren't we? Or are we? Maybe if we all seek relationship with others for others - putting their needs ahead of our own - we could learn to love a pure and selfless love. . . like Jesus did.

Cling to the Good

"Cling to what is good". I read that on the back of a baptist church "love" card. So what's a baptist church "love" card? They are these business-style cards that have Bible quotes and other special messages printed on them instead of your standard name, title, address, phone number, e-mail address and whatnot. Really a very "good" idea if you ask me. An inexpensive, simple way for the church to get God's message out to the general public. While many folks might be reluctant to sit down and read big ol' chunks of the Bible, they might be open to the idea of accepting a small business card and then reading the message printed upon it. I was anyway, and that's how I happened to come across "cling to what is good." So what is "good" exactly? I suppose it is a relative term when you really get right down to it. Good for me might not be good for the guy next door, right? I mean cashews and walnuts might taste yummy, satiate my body, smell heavenly and feel like the perfect sized food in the palm of my hand, but they might kill by best friend who happens to suffer from a nut allergy. Yeah, so "good" in the particular really must be a relative term or idea. But what about in a broader sense? What if I said, "food is good" instead of "walnuts are good"? I'd probably be hard pressed to find someone who would disagree with the categorization that food is good. So in a broad, general sense, what is "good"? Babies, puppies and kittens, and the sun and the moon and the stars, and the rain and the wind and the air that we breathe, and books and movies and songs, and new clothes and hair-cuts and a night on the town, and dancing and playing and love-making, and creativity and thinking and communicating, and a joke and a job and ______. You fill in the blank. Go ahead. I'm sure you can think of a thing or two or ten or twenty that I've failed to mention. But more than that - more than all the things I've listed or the things you may have added - love and family and friends and connectedness and belonging and safety and stability and relationship and compassion and understanding and feeling whole and complete and fulfilled - that's good. Cling to that! Cling to yourself. Cling to others. Cling to the God of your understanding. Cling to that which makes you feel and believe and know that you are good. Because you are! We all are! There is goodness in each and every one of us. While we might not always do good things, say good things, think good thoughts, or feel good feelings, we are still - at our very core - good. I believe God made us "good", because He is incapable of imperfection. Robbers, rapists, murderers, child molesters, yes, even Hitler, did horrific things. They sat God's "good" aside in order to do evil. That does not mean, however, that they - as flesh and bone - were not good. It just means they got lost. Some for an instant, others for much longer. If humanity as a whole could work toward finding the good - in ourselves as well as others - we could cling to it and eradicate that which is not good: poverty, war, homelessness, ignorance, selfishness, hatred, hunger, disease, greed and _____. You fill in the blank. Go ahead. Think on it. Sleep on it. And when you are ready, fill in the blank. Strive then, daily, to cling to the good, which will eliminate the _____. Peace.

Barbie and Me and the Grain Elevators

Walking down the hall at work today, a young "20-something" with the body of a Barbie Doll who was wearing a short, swishy but ass-hugging skirt held a door open for me and urged me to pass through. As she held the door and I walked through, I couldn't help but notice, mostly because of the mouth-watering appetite-producing aroma, the plate of food she held in her free hand. Piled on top of her 1/2 lb. cheeseburger with the works, were the yummiest looking salty, greasy golden brown french fries I've seen in some time. At my age, I really don't eat many french fries these day cause they have a way of becoming a permanent part of my stomach, ass, thighs and arms. Anyway, the fries looked and smelled better then any food has a right to. As I passed by Anorexic Annie, who was posing as Bulimic Betty - or maybe I have that wrong - maybe she was Bulimic Betty posing as Anorexic Annie - I couldn't help but wonder if she saw me as old. Was she holding that door open for me because she was respecting her elders? Did she view me as so broken down and decrepit that she believed me incapable of holding my own door open? After all, both my hands were free. Shouldn't it have been me who held the door for her? She did have her hands - or at least one of her hands - full of food, so it would have seemed more appropriate for me to hold the door for her. But that didn't happen and I can't help but to wonder why. In my head, I'm "20-something" too. Always have been, always will be. But my body must be some other age. Technically, I think it's 51 - or so I'm told. Doesn't happen often, but ever once in awhile I have this thought about age. Usually prompted by something someone else does or says. Today was one of those days. The action of another person made me have a thought. A thought that I'm not immortal. I am aging. My days on this planet are limited - more so now then ever before. Even as I write this, I've lost time and am closer to death then I was a second ago. Ugh. I remember starting with my company 25 years ago. Young and alive with no sense of time or age at all. Well at least not where I was concerned. I saw age only in others - people older then myself. And I still do that. Many of the folks who worked for my company the day I started are still there. And they are still older then me. So most of the time, I see age only when I'm in the company of one of them. Now it's happening. There are more "20-somethings" then there are "50-somethings" in my office, and it's causing me to become more and more aware that time is not on my side. My boobs are sagging, my skin is losing elasticity, I'm developing a turkey neck, the color of my eyes are dulling, I have age spots on my hands that darken with each passing year, my bladder is weaker causing me to have to pee all the time, I don't sleep soundly at night - I'm typically up 2 or 3 times a night, my bones are starting to pain me on a regular - frequent - basis, my memory is starting to fail me, and now, for the first time ever, I question who I am. I don't really know. How strange. If you had asked me at 21 who I was, I could have told you in a heartbeat! And now at 51, I really don't know. I don't know from where I came and I don't know where I'm going. And most of the time, I don't know what I'm doing or why. Ugh! Driving home from work tonight, I saw it. Something I never thought I'd see. They - whoever "they" are - have started tearing down my childhood. Ok, ok, not my childhood exactly - but something from my childhood. I was born in the quaint lil town of North Kansas City in a small area hospital. Just down the street were grain elevators. Each time I pass through North Kansas City, I see those grain elevators and they bring back all kinds of memories. Some sad, but most are good. They are memories mostly of my youth - fun times, good times - back in the day when I played and laughed and grew boobs and knew exactly who I was and where I was going. And today on my way home, the grain elevators were gone. Demolished. Torn down. Fallen into a big ol’ heap of rubble. I almost cried. As goes the grain elevators, so go I. Maybe not today, but soon.

Comforting Moon

I remember the tiny little bed in an attic I believe. Lying there that night, looking out the window at the big, shiny moon and wondering where you were. Where was my mama? Where was my papa? Who were these people that owned the bed in the attic that had a window that had a moon? Had you given me away? Didn't you love me anymore? Why? What had I done? What hadn't I done? Wasn't I good? Didn't I behave? I tried really hard. Wasn't my hard good enough? Would I ever see you again? Did you miss me too? Would the sun rise tomorrow or was this the end of time? These and so many more were questions that plauged my mind that night. I was three. One of my earliest memories. Being alone. All alone. And not knowing why. No understanding. One day I was happy at home with my mama and daddy. The next I was in a strange place with strange people thinking strange thoughts that had never occurred to me before. Like all children, I'm sure, my mother and father were my rock, my foundation, my life. They were the people I turned to for everything. They had all the answers. They kept me safe. Nothing bad could ever happen so long as they were there. No monsters in the closet. No boogie man under the bed. Then it happened. They were gone. I didn't know where they were. I didn't know why they left - or left me. I didn't know if they were coming back. And for the first time in my short life, I came to understand that I wasn't safe. I was alone. It was just me in the world. I couldn't trust or depend on anyone if I couldn't trust and depend on my mother and father. What would I do? Where would I go? What would become of me? These questions kept me up that night as I lay in that bed looking at that big ol moon. Fear. I felt it. It was real. It was consuming. It was terrorizing. But somehow the moon saved me. It gave me comfort. I had seen it before. It was familiar in that place of strange. It got me through the night. And to this day, when I look at the moon, there is a peace that fills me with a knowing that everything is gonna be ok. . . somehow.