Every Christian who watched C4's "Make me a Christian" on Sunday evening must be having a *headdesk* moment.
I tuned in because it was the only channel working on Sky and was ever so sorry I did, but it had all the compulsion of watching a car crash. The star of the show was the evangelical Reverend George Hargreaves, whose fortune comes from the gay club business. (Yes, you read that right.) Playing his little Christian poodle ministry coterie were Rev. Joanna Jepson (CofE), Fr John Flynn (Catholic) and Pastor Wale Babatunde.
The group to be brainwashed - oops, I meant helped - ranged from an affluent family of four looking to spend time together (hint: no need to be Christian, just turn off the damn Gameboy) to an atheist biker who'd had a Christian school education and, in describing it, gets the award for the best quote of the episode: "There was as much love as you'd get from Fred West at a patio party."
One member of the group was a pagan lapdancer obsessed with her physical image, which led to lots of money being spent on how she looked - surgery, clothes, shoes, you name it. She joined the group because she knew that deep down she was unhappy and she was looking for something more. You'd think Rev. Hargreaves would find this promising, right?
Wrong.
Instead, he went into her house and removed all her books and her pagan paraphernalia. Fine, she needs to live as a Christian for 3 weeks. But the derogatory running commentary, with the Cotton Mather classic,"You're on a trajectory to hell," made me want to jump through the screen and push him out the window. It wasn't so long ago, Reverend, that you were on that same trajectory. Her self-esteem is as fragile as spun glass; a little more compassion might be in order, perhaps? How about "You know, this is where you are, but you know you're not happy and you're looking for a better way. Let's try to find that way together - and remember, Jesus is crazy in love with you no matter what you've done and where you've been. Let me tell you a little bit about where I was 25 years ago..."
Ah, but this isn't about her finding HER way to Christianity. It's about her finding YOUR way to Christianity. Mea culpa. So the deal is that you destroy what's left of her self-esteem, then pat her on the head and tell her what to believe, then praise her when she behaves and tear her down again when she doesn't. How very David Koresh of you.
But, erm, not very Christian.
The Catholic priest seemed inoffensive enough, shyly offering a picture of Our Lady and one of the Sacred Heart (read: Jesus in drag) for them to put up in their house. The girlfriend objected when a crucifix was put up, stating her discomfort with the violent image. Fair enough. I didn't hear much else he had to say, so more on him next week. You're off the hook, Padre.
Reverend Jepson - forsooth and forshame. I expected far more out of you as a woman priest; you have to be twice as good to get half the credit. First off, WHAT was with that first look - your shirt unbuttoned to your cleavage, with your collar around your throat like you were a stripper on her way to a bachelor party. Girlfriend, the GokFather, along with THE Father, would have given you a well-deserved smack. It was disrespectful to your office and didn't do you any favours when you were telling a randy young man to stop treating women as sex objects, while YOU looked like something out of a BDSM catalogue. You cleaned up later, but your words at the abortion clinic were just...crap, really. You didn't engage with the issues, you just quoted.
To be fair, neither did anyone else. There was no meeting the seekers where they were, showing them any kind of compassion, no acknowledging that maybe the issues weren't as black and white as they pretended they were.
The greatest crime? Not paying attention to what each seeker needed. The first lesson any good minister needs to learn is to *listen* and to hear what ISN'T being said, as well as what is. There was a lot of pain, fear and anxiety in this group, and the pastors either bypassed it or steamrollered over it. Pastoral skills: F.
I understand their anxiety that Christianity seems to be in trouble, that they only have three weeks, that they're on national television. But that's no excuse for treating people as possible spiritual punters rather than the spiritual *beings* that they are.
They could do worse than taking the example of their first Teacher. For a quick start, I'd recommend the following. It should be familiar:
"When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?
She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee..."
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Oops...
I nipped into church on Sunday to see my friend John and have a proper chat. We managed a bit in the Social Club (now pretentiously termed the 'Parish Centre' and equally devoid of personality, to boot), but the real conversation always waits for our walks along the old railway line at Walsingham.
I WILL blog John (have been meaning to for ages) at some point, but he once again demonstrated an astute awareness of my character when we were chatting in the car on the way home:
John: ...but I know I grate on some people.
Irim: Hey, I grate on EVERYONE.
John: Yes, but for you, it's a hobby.
Busted.
I WILL blog John (have been meaning to for ages) at some point, but he once again demonstrated an astute awareness of my character when we were chatting in the car on the way home:
John: ...but I know I grate on some people.
Irim: Hey, I grate on EVERYONE.
John: Yes, but for you, it's a hobby.
Busted.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
On joy
In my last entry, I tell a friend he has much passion but little joy, and ask what is tearing at his soul.
But what IS joy? I believe it to be far deeper than happiness or pleasure: it is the stillness of the deep ocean whilst the surface tosses and turns during a storm; joy is an undercurrent to the changing emotions of our lives. You can love life beneath anger or the intense pain of loss.
It shows in all sorts of ways: taking pleasure in ordinary things, such as a Krispy Kreme doughnut or the feel of cotton against your skin; anticipating new experiences; living every moment fully; finding a gift in a less-than-optimal situation.
It was the latter - and perhaps a touch of the first - that brought that undercurrent to the surface for me today. Rachel and I went to the cricket, meeting Mazz & Mark and their friends Greg & Mel. The start was delayed by rain, we had an hour of promising cricket, then rain fell again as lunch approached.
Rach and I went off to grab some burgers, and as we were heading back to our seats, we passed Mazz and crew on their way out to a pub to catch the rugby whilst the cricket was rained off. We went back to our seats and munched on our burgers under my big white brolly (mentioned on TMS), then sat back to wait for the rain to end.
It was futile - play was called off three hours later.
But Rach and I didn't stop laughing. Whether we were listening to TMS or the "Shane Warne song" (I do not lie), chatting with the stewards (who wondered why we were so amused), answering, 'So what is X like as a shag?', or checking out the SA players on their balcony with betfair binoculars, we didn't stop giggling.
That turned to outright guffawing as we played 'Marry/shag/push off a cliff (lethal or non-lethal)' with sets of cricketers. For those of you that don't know the game, you're presented with a trio of men/women and asked whom you would marry, have great, uncommitted sex with (read: like a man) or push off a cliff. You are not allowed to duck the question and say, "Shag all three of them, of course!"
For example: David Tennant, Daniel Craig, Jonathan Frakes.
I would: Marry David Tennant, shag Daniel Craig, push Jonathan Frakes off a cliff (sorry, Riker - nah, not really).
Sad it may be, but we got hours of amusement out of it. The best answer came with this trio:
Ian Bell, Paul Collingwood, Geraint Jones.
No-brainer for both of us: Marry Colly and push Geraint off a cliff (lethal. Sorry, dude, you've dropped way too many catches to be spared).
Which left one choice for Ian Bell. We looked at eachother under the white brolly, hesitant to commit ourselves. Then Rach had a stroke of genius:
"And have a headache when the time comes to shag Ian." We roared with laughter...
...and sheer, unadulterated joy in eachother's company. At one point, I looked over at her as she whizzed through songs on her ipod, thinking how blessed I was to count her as a friend for her genuine kindness beneath her cynicism, her humour, her support, her wackiness. She absolutely rocks, and is more like a sister than a friend.
At that moment, sitting at the soggy Oval with rain pounding on the white brolly, fully present in the moment, I finally understood where joy was to be found. Not in earthquake, wind or fire -
but in the still, small voice of our everyday lives - even when your ass is wet.
But what IS joy? I believe it to be far deeper than happiness or pleasure: it is the stillness of the deep ocean whilst the surface tosses and turns during a storm; joy is an undercurrent to the changing emotions of our lives. You can love life beneath anger or the intense pain of loss.
It shows in all sorts of ways: taking pleasure in ordinary things, such as a Krispy Kreme doughnut or the feel of cotton against your skin; anticipating new experiences; living every moment fully; finding a gift in a less-than-optimal situation.
It was the latter - and perhaps a touch of the first - that brought that undercurrent to the surface for me today. Rachel and I went to the cricket, meeting Mazz & Mark and their friends Greg & Mel. The start was delayed by rain, we had an hour of promising cricket, then rain fell again as lunch approached.
Rach and I went off to grab some burgers, and as we were heading back to our seats, we passed Mazz and crew on their way out to a pub to catch the rugby whilst the cricket was rained off. We went back to our seats and munched on our burgers under my big white brolly (mentioned on TMS), then sat back to wait for the rain to end.
It was futile - play was called off three hours later.
But Rach and I didn't stop laughing. Whether we were listening to TMS or the "Shane Warne song" (I do not lie), chatting with the stewards (who wondered why we were so amused), answering, 'So what is X like as a shag?', or checking out the SA players on their balcony with betfair binoculars, we didn't stop giggling.
That turned to outright guffawing as we played 'Marry/shag/push off a cliff (lethal or non-lethal)' with sets of cricketers. For those of you that don't know the game, you're presented with a trio of men/women and asked whom you would marry, have great, uncommitted sex with (read: like a man) or push off a cliff. You are not allowed to duck the question and say, "Shag all three of them, of course!"
For example: David Tennant, Daniel Craig, Jonathan Frakes.
I would: Marry David Tennant, shag Daniel Craig, push Jonathan Frakes off a cliff (sorry, Riker - nah, not really).
Sad it may be, but we got hours of amusement out of it. The best answer came with this trio:
Ian Bell, Paul Collingwood, Geraint Jones.
No-brainer for both of us: Marry Colly and push Geraint off a cliff (lethal. Sorry, dude, you've dropped way too many catches to be spared).
Which left one choice for Ian Bell. We looked at eachother under the white brolly, hesitant to commit ourselves. Then Rach had a stroke of genius:
"And have a headache when the time comes to shag Ian." We roared with laughter...
...and sheer, unadulterated joy in eachother's company. At one point, I looked over at her as she whizzed through songs on her ipod, thinking how blessed I was to count her as a friend for her genuine kindness beneath her cynicism, her humour, her support, her wackiness. She absolutely rocks, and is more like a sister than a friend.
At that moment, sitting at the soggy Oval with rain pounding on the white brolly, fully present in the moment, I finally understood where joy was to be found. Not in earthquake, wind or fire -
but in the still, small voice of our everyday lives - even when your ass is wet.
A challenge...
"I have never known a novice with so much passion and so little joy. What tears at your soul, brother?" --Cadfael, The devil's novice
Not a novice, but you know who you are, boy-o.
Please, turn around and face the demons before avoiding them destroys you or even kills you.
They will be some of the best friends you've ever had, I promise you. And though only you can face them, you will never be alone. So many would be there to help.
All you've ever had to do was ask.
Not a novice, but you know who you are, boy-o.
Please, turn around and face the demons before avoiding them destroys you or even kills you.
They will be some of the best friends you've ever had, I promise you. And though only you can face them, you will never be alone. So many would be there to help.
All you've ever had to do was ask.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Goodness gracious me
From the foreword to G. Sherwood Eddy's "The Students of Asia", 1916:
"India is stirring from her sleep of ages. For centuries Ignorance has drugged her senses and numbed her comely limbs. To-day, her best friends bestir themselves to expel the heavy fumes of ignorance and let in the pure sweet light of knowledge and wisdom. Foremost in this task are missionaries of the Anglo-Saxon race, Christian men and women who are bearing to the farthest and darkest corners of the Eastern world the torch of civilization and progress, spreading the truths of Christian hope..."
I'd pass you the bucket, but I'm using it. Yes, I know it's in the context of colonial Britain, but still. He seems to conveniently forget that Harappa and the Indus civilisation was flourishing whilst his precious 'Anglo-Saxon race' was grunting in tribes and wondering what to do with berries and two pieces of flint.
Ignorance? Sanskrit (and I suspect Ari will back me on this) literature is among the richest and most complex in the world, not least because of a rich and complex religion and Holy Book that is far more subtle and has a more complex understanding of God than the Western Bible. Christianity is religious colour by numbers compared to Hinduism.
So Mr Eddy's ancestors come to India, salivate over the spices, clothing, tea and natural resources; take as much of what they want as they can; make a bloody fortune on it; prevent natural development of the culture by not letting the people do for themselves; leave the place in such a bloody mess that over a million people die (ok, that was 30 yrs later, granted) - and he and others have the nerve to believe that?
Funnily enough, I don't see a Taj Mahal in England. Ignorant and slumbering, my (not so small) ass.
Thank God I've got enough of a sense of humour and history to laugh that ass off during my rant.
"India is stirring from her sleep of ages. For centuries Ignorance has drugged her senses and numbed her comely limbs. To-day, her best friends bestir themselves to expel the heavy fumes of ignorance and let in the pure sweet light of knowledge and wisdom. Foremost in this task are missionaries of the Anglo-Saxon race, Christian men and women who are bearing to the farthest and darkest corners of the Eastern world the torch of civilization and progress, spreading the truths of Christian hope..."
I'd pass you the bucket, but I'm using it. Yes, I know it's in the context of colonial Britain, but still. He seems to conveniently forget that Harappa and the Indus civilisation was flourishing whilst his precious 'Anglo-Saxon race' was grunting in tribes and wondering what to do with berries and two pieces of flint.
Ignorance? Sanskrit (and I suspect Ari will back me on this) literature is among the richest and most complex in the world, not least because of a rich and complex religion and Holy Book that is far more subtle and has a more complex understanding of God than the Western Bible. Christianity is religious colour by numbers compared to Hinduism.
So Mr Eddy's ancestors come to India, salivate over the spices, clothing, tea and natural resources; take as much of what they want as they can; make a bloody fortune on it; prevent natural development of the culture by not letting the people do for themselves; leave the place in such a bloody mess that over a million people die (ok, that was 30 yrs later, granted) - and he and others have the nerve to believe that?
Funnily enough, I don't see a Taj Mahal in England. Ignorant and slumbering, my (not so small) ass.
Thank God I've got enough of a sense of humour and history to laugh that ass off during my rant.
Monday, 4 August 2008
It just had to be done...
I love the men in my life and men in general, really. I was touched when a male friend told me he loved how I was a feminist but didn't want a penis (except to be able to pee standing up) and was appalled when another male friend said I treated him as if I wanted to lop his balls off. That probably means I have the balance right.
My boys are delightfully male - protective, thoughtful, polite, funny and fabulous: 'Manly men', my friend Ari calls them. And they are, in the best sense of the phrase. Therefore, I know they'll find this sign as funny as I do - they'd certainly agree that a certain segment of the male population needs to have that happen to them. In fact, I can think of a man or two they'd like to see me do that to. The most dreaded words from my male friends about a guy I'm discussing with them are, "I'd like to meet him," delivered calmly and evenly.
Then I usually make sure they *don't*.
But my boys are usually right: more often than not, it's not like the guy in question WAS using it.
Thursday, 24 July 2008
And one day, I woke up to find myself wearing a burqa and smoking a hookah...
I love booking with VisitScotland, they're great. Honestly, most of the tourist boards in the UK here are really helpful. I don't use them when I go to Orkney because I adore Inga and her self-catering flats at Atlantis Lodges in Finstown on the Mainland; but since my friend Ann and I are going up by train, we need to stay overnight in Inverness each way.
I got this booking letter on 1 July as an email attachment, skimmed it and filed it till I needed to print it off today. (Off tomorrow, hurrah!) I read it through, then started giggling uncontrollably. See if you can spot why...
VisitScotland.com
Fairways Business Park
Deer Park Avenue
Fairways Business Park
Livingston
Scotland
EH54 8AF
Great Britain
Ms Irim []
xxxxxxxxxxx
Oxford
Oxfordshire
OXn nXX
Afghanistan
It's all becoming so clear to me now. That would explain why all the posted mileages switched from London to Kabul this morning....
I got this booking letter on 1 July as an email attachment, skimmed it and filed it till I needed to print it off today. (Off tomorrow, hurrah!) I read it through, then started giggling uncontrollably. See if you can spot why...
VisitScotland.com
Fairways Business Park
Deer Park Avenue
Fairways Business Park
Livingston
Scotland
EH54 8AF
Great Britain
Ms Irim []
xxxxxxxxxxx
Oxford
Oxfordshire
OXn nXX
Afghanistan
It's all becoming so clear to me now. That would explain why all the posted mileages switched from London to Kabul this morning....
Friday, 18 July 2008
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
A new direction
Well, I've finally done it.
After university, I did a stint phone counseling at a suicide hotline, and I remember being completely absorbed by the training. I went back to uni to take some psychology courses, hoping to go to graduate school in psychology, but I needed to work, so that never got off the ground.
I've taught, been a librarian, but my heart has always been in psychology/counselling. It shows up in my favourite television shows, what I read, how I behave, what I listen for.
But when it came to going for it as a career, I made all kinds of excuses. I'm not sure why; part of it is that growing up with parents obsessed by academic work to the exclusion of everything else meant I couldn't bear the thought of more. There was also the excuse of time, money, age, you name it, I found it.
But vocation is vocation. I've been told over and over that it's an area of strength for me, person after person has asked if I am/have thought about it/why not/and so on. And over the years, my interest in the area has grown, not waned. And somehow, I just gravitate towards people who hurt. This year, I gave in and said 'yes' to the universe.
I'm on a course to train as a psychotherapist. And I can't wait for it to start.
KJ asked me: So why do you want to go in to psychotherapy? You're clearly good at reading people, but I'm guessing it's more than just having the natural talent?
I say so much on this blog that it must be hard to believe that I find this hard to articulate - but those things closest to the heart are. For this 'why', there aren't words. It's just...what I do.
But perhaps music and words can express what I can't:
"Don't give up, 'cos you have friends,
Don't give up, you're not beaten yet
Don't give up, I know you can make it good..."
I want to be part of helping people see that, helping them find *their* way, not anyone else's:
"Don't give up, 'cos somewhere there's a place where we belong."
It's gonna be all right, even if it's not what you expected. Hang in there.
And if you need a hand, here's one to hold till you can make it on your own.
After university, I did a stint phone counseling at a suicide hotline, and I remember being completely absorbed by the training. I went back to uni to take some psychology courses, hoping to go to graduate school in psychology, but I needed to work, so that never got off the ground.
I've taught, been a librarian, but my heart has always been in psychology/counselling. It shows up in my favourite television shows, what I read, how I behave, what I listen for.
But when it came to going for it as a career, I made all kinds of excuses. I'm not sure why; part of it is that growing up with parents obsessed by academic work to the exclusion of everything else meant I couldn't bear the thought of more. There was also the excuse of time, money, age, you name it, I found it.
But vocation is vocation. I've been told over and over that it's an area of strength for me, person after person has asked if I am/have thought about it/why not/and so on. And over the years, my interest in the area has grown, not waned. And somehow, I just gravitate towards people who hurt. This year, I gave in and said 'yes' to the universe.
I'm on a course to train as a psychotherapist. And I can't wait for it to start.
KJ asked me: So why do you want to go in to psychotherapy? You're clearly good at reading people, but I'm guessing it's more than just having the natural talent?
I say so much on this blog that it must be hard to believe that I find this hard to articulate - but those things closest to the heart are. For this 'why', there aren't words. It's just...what I do.
But perhaps music and words can express what I can't:
"Don't give up, 'cos you have friends,
Don't give up, you're not beaten yet
Don't give up, I know you can make it good..."
I want to be part of helping people see that, helping them find *their* way, not anyone else's:
"Don't give up, 'cos somewhere there's a place where we belong."
It's gonna be all right, even if it's not what you expected. Hang in there.
And if you need a hand, here's one to hold till you can make it on your own.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Stealth sexy...
I felt great about my birthday outfit till I saw pictures of myself sitting down in it. The words 'beached' and 'whale' came to mind, as well as "OHMYGOD, TIME FOR SLIMFAST AND THE GYM!!"
Working on the second, not desperate enough for the first yet - as I've said here before, I love my cleavage, and with Slimfast, it tends to go first. No go. I own way too many tops designed to show it off.
Jack and I were online chatting today, and as ever, he left me feeling happy and protected (despite being my junior by a good number of years). All IM typos are left in:
Jack says (19:21):
once im free again it would be nice to go out with some of you friends from your bday again
Irim says (19:21):
that would be lovely
Jack says (19:22):
cooolo
Irim says (19:22):
once I've lost at least a stone and look decent in photos
Irim says (19:22):
:D
Jack says (19:25):
dude, u looked fucking hot on your bday!
Irim says (19:26):
Awww, you're so sweet!
Jack says (19:26):
serious
Jack says (19:26):
u must have lost a load of weight
Jack says (19:26):
i wasnt just being charming!
Jack says (19:26):
:)
Irim says (19:26):
Actually, I usually wear clothes way too big
Jack says (19:26):
aha
Irim says (19:26):
I was wearing clothes that fit
Jack says (19:27):
one of the "gist is better then the wrappings" eh
Jack says (19:27):
nice
Jack says (19:27):
stealth sexy
Jack says (19:27):
:)
Irim says (19:27):
anything that hangs from my tits means I have a [] inch waist,
Jack says (19:27):
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH
Irim says (19:27):
I love that phrase
Jack says (19:27):
thats fucking funny
Irim says (19:27):
I just think if a guy doesn't look past the surface, it's not worth it
Jack says (19:27):
agreeed
Irim says (19:27):
'stealth sexy'
Irim says (19:28):
might have to blog it.
Jack says (19:28):
do it
Jack says (19:28):
i want ot be quoted
Irim says (19:28):
all right, darling. Do you want to be named?
Jack says (19:28):
fuk yeh
And so, my dear, consider yourself named.
"Stealth sexy". Just like that, he took my wearing big clothes - anchored in the sexual abuse, my mother's complete weirdness about my body in all sorts of ways, and my resulting ambivalence about my body - and turned it into gift wrapping.
Lo, verily, I was healed.
Working on the second, not desperate enough for the first yet - as I've said here before, I love my cleavage, and with Slimfast, it tends to go first. No go. I own way too many tops designed to show it off.
Jack and I were online chatting today, and as ever, he left me feeling happy and protected (despite being my junior by a good number of years). All IM typos are left in:
Jack says (19:21):
once im free again it would be nice to go out with some of you friends from your bday again
Irim says (19:21):
that would be lovely
Jack says (19:22):
cooolo
Irim says (19:22):
once I've lost at least a stone and look decent in photos
Irim says (19:22):
:D
Jack says (19:25):
dude, u looked fucking hot on your bday!
Irim says (19:26):
Awww, you're so sweet!
Jack says (19:26):
serious
Jack says (19:26):
u must have lost a load of weight
Jack says (19:26):
i wasnt just being charming!
Jack says (19:26):
:)
Irim says (19:26):
Actually, I usually wear clothes way too big
Jack says (19:26):
aha
Irim says (19:26):
I was wearing clothes that fit
Jack says (19:27):
one of the "gist is better then the wrappings" eh
Jack says (19:27):
nice
Jack says (19:27):
stealth sexy
Jack says (19:27):
:)
Irim says (19:27):
anything that hangs from my tits means I have a [] inch waist,
Jack says (19:27):
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH
Irim says (19:27):
I love that phrase
Jack says (19:27):
thats fucking funny
Irim says (19:27):
I just think if a guy doesn't look past the surface, it's not worth it
Jack says (19:27):
agreeed
Irim says (19:27):
'stealth sexy'
Irim says (19:28):
might have to blog it.
Jack says (19:28):
do it
Jack says (19:28):
i want ot be quoted
Irim says (19:28):
all right, darling. Do you want to be named?
Jack says (19:28):
fuk yeh
And so, my dear, consider yourself named.
"Stealth sexy". Just like that, he took my wearing big clothes - anchored in the sexual abuse, my mother's complete weirdness about my body in all sorts of ways, and my resulting ambivalence about my body - and turned it into gift wrapping.
Lo, verily, I was healed.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Patenting a phrase...
This morning, whilst holding a hypothetical conversation with a friend fast on the path to relationship deadwood in my head, I thought,
"I really need to cough up the hairball that is my relationship with X."
I just loved the imagery and had to put in on record!
A few real blog entries to follow, I promise.
"I really need to cough up the hairball that is my relationship with X."
I just loved the imagery and had to put in on record!
A few real blog entries to follow, I promise.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Turn left
WHAT an absolute cracker of a "Doctor Who" episode.
When I first heard "Doctor Who" was returning in early 2005, I snorted in derision. Never be as good as the previous series, I said to anyone who would listen. I was wrong. Even then, I didn't learn: I voiced the same doubts when David Tennant was chosen to replace Christopher Eccleston, whose darker, more chaotic depiction of the Doctor had completely won me over.
Wrong again. Tennant is now my favourite Doctor by light-years, an absolutely quintessential mixture of light and dark, zany humour and deathly seriousness, light-hearted laughter and immense power.
But I digress. Back to the cracker of an episode.
It begins with Donna (his current companion) and the Doctor in a far Eastern market. They are separated, then Donna is drawn into a fortune-teller's tent and forced to go back to change the moment that led to her meeting the Doctor - she listens to her mother and turns right instead of left. In that moment, she is swept into an alternate universe.
The Doctor's death and alien-ridden catastrophe that follow her moment of self-doubt (in the original moment, she overrode her mother's mockery of her desire to work somewhere posh by saying, "They haven't met me.") is beyond imagination.
It was a powerful reminder of how our ordinary decisions can have cosmic consequences. We often seem surprised by this, but we shouldn't be. We make thousands of tiny decisions every day: singly and cumulatively, they shape our lives by the paths we choose to walk and the doors we choose to open or close. The ordinary choice that stands out in my mind is the one my cousin made 23 years ago, when she reluctantly agreed to go along and meet this guy her friend had met on the beach and ended up marrying him - 20 years and still counting.
Our lives, loves and stories are made up of the everyday things that we discount so easily. It's so easy to see how the big decisions - degree, career, marriage, having children - change our paths, but we miss the whole pattern; how all the small decisions lead up to the larger ones...the small changes in direction that suddenly mean we're going north instead of east. Funnily enough, only hours before the episode I was doing an exercise from "Steering by Starlight" by Martha Beck which requires you to live your life backwards, going through all the decisions you've made that have brought you those things you hold most dear. I was struck afresh with appreciation and awe of how my life had been shaped through those seemingly innocuous choices.
Innocuous though they may seem, the confluence of those ordinary decisions can make us extraordinarily important. Later in the episode, Rose Tyler (a former companion of the Doctor) tells Donna she is the most important person in creation and that events have been bending around her since she was born, echoing Robert Jordan's idea of ta'veren: "a person around whom the Wheel of Time weaves all surrounding life-threads, perhaps ALL life-threads, to form a Web of Destiny."
Donna scoffs, but any one of us can be the ta'veren in the centre of a web of destiny at any given time. We all live more meaningful lives and have a bigger effect on the Pattern than we can ever know. When we realise that, we understand what Rachel Remen meant when she said we are always on holy ground. Knowing that, it becomes essential that we are true to ourselves and that we live every moment of our lives consciously and with reverence.
How to do this? I think we need to become fully present in each moment: listen deeply, love deeply, dive all the way into our lives rather than skimming the surface, so that we know what's real. Live your life all the way minute by minute, not halfway waiting for something big to come along. By doing that, we connect to the part of ourselves that is more than the sum of our parts. We begin to know those everyday decisions for the pathmakers that they are and allow our deepest self to guide us through intuition. We begin to have soul.
So, when the time comes to make a decision, and you've listened to your soul and know what's true no matter what everyone else is saying, set your face like flint. Don't blink. Don't even blink.
Don't turn your back. Don't look away. AND DON'T BLINK.
Then, take a deep breath...
...and turn left.
When I first heard "Doctor Who" was returning in early 2005, I snorted in derision. Never be as good as the previous series, I said to anyone who would listen. I was wrong. Even then, I didn't learn: I voiced the same doubts when David Tennant was chosen to replace Christopher Eccleston, whose darker, more chaotic depiction of the Doctor had completely won me over.
Wrong again. Tennant is now my favourite Doctor by light-years, an absolutely quintessential mixture of light and dark, zany humour and deathly seriousness, light-hearted laughter and immense power.
But I digress. Back to the cracker of an episode.
It begins with Donna (his current companion) and the Doctor in a far Eastern market. They are separated, then Donna is drawn into a fortune-teller's tent and forced to go back to change the moment that led to her meeting the Doctor - she listens to her mother and turns right instead of left. In that moment, she is swept into an alternate universe.
The Doctor's death and alien-ridden catastrophe that follow her moment of self-doubt (in the original moment, she overrode her mother's mockery of her desire to work somewhere posh by saying, "They haven't met me.") is beyond imagination.
It was a powerful reminder of how our ordinary decisions can have cosmic consequences. We often seem surprised by this, but we shouldn't be. We make thousands of tiny decisions every day: singly and cumulatively, they shape our lives by the paths we choose to walk and the doors we choose to open or close. The ordinary choice that stands out in my mind is the one my cousin made 23 years ago, when she reluctantly agreed to go along and meet this guy her friend had met on the beach and ended up marrying him - 20 years and still counting.
Our lives, loves and stories are made up of the everyday things that we discount so easily. It's so easy to see how the big decisions - degree, career, marriage, having children - change our paths, but we miss the whole pattern; how all the small decisions lead up to the larger ones...the small changes in direction that suddenly mean we're going north instead of east. Funnily enough, only hours before the episode I was doing an exercise from "Steering by Starlight" by Martha Beck which requires you to live your life backwards, going through all the decisions you've made that have brought you those things you hold most dear. I was struck afresh with appreciation and awe of how my life had been shaped through those seemingly innocuous choices.
Innocuous though they may seem, the confluence of those ordinary decisions can make us extraordinarily important. Later in the episode, Rose Tyler (a former companion of the Doctor) tells Donna she is the most important person in creation and that events have been bending around her since she was born, echoing Robert Jordan's idea of ta'veren: "a person around whom the Wheel of Time weaves all surrounding life-threads, perhaps ALL life-threads, to form a Web of Destiny."
Donna scoffs, but any one of us can be the ta'veren in the centre of a web of destiny at any given time. We all live more meaningful lives and have a bigger effect on the Pattern than we can ever know. When we realise that, we understand what Rachel Remen meant when she said we are always on holy ground. Knowing that, it becomes essential that we are true to ourselves and that we live every moment of our lives consciously and with reverence.
How to do this? I think we need to become fully present in each moment: listen deeply, love deeply, dive all the way into our lives rather than skimming the surface, so that we know what's real. Live your life all the way minute by minute, not halfway waiting for something big to come along. By doing that, we connect to the part of ourselves that is more than the sum of our parts. We begin to know those everyday decisions for the pathmakers that they are and allow our deepest self to guide us through intuition. We begin to have soul.
So, when the time comes to make a decision, and you've listened to your soul and know what's true no matter what everyone else is saying, set your face like flint. Don't blink. Don't even blink.
Don't turn your back. Don't look away. AND DON'T BLINK.
Then, take a deep breath...
...and turn left.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Heartless bitch
What writer's block: I can't even get the thank you notes out for my party. (They're coming guys, I swear. Meanwhile, b/c cards and pressies got separated, could people please confirm what they gave me?) I'm struggling through a serious post at the moment, and am struggling against inertia on writing shorter, lighter posts whilst the more serious ones sort themselves out.
I feel like living proof of the first part of Newton's first law of motion: an object at rest shall remain at rest. Boy, do I need an unbalanced force...
...and I got it in the form of an email that I might have missed, if I didn't check my spam email so carefully.
A few weeks ago, just after my real (not official) birthday, I applied to become a member at this site. I honestly didn't think I'd make it, since I had to offer up my blog as well as a short essay as proof of the quality mentioned.
I knew that if I hadn't made it by the next round of site updates, I hadn't made it. So I kept checking.
Tuesday morning, I pumped my fist as I saw an email from the website in my spam box. When I opened it, I proudly read:
Congratulations! You have just become an official member of Heartless Bitches International: The sauciest, ass-kickingest, fiercest Web site this side of the continental divide! We make NO apologies for who we are, and we take NO prisoners.
Some or all of your comments (from your application) have been added to the pages of Real Life Heartless Bitches
Check and see if you were singled out for "Exemplary Heartless Bitchitude"!
YESSSSSSSSSSSSS! If you want to read most of the application, it's here.
Bless one of my friends, when I told her, she said I was anything but a heartless bitch.
If the phrase is used in a particular way, perhaps. I don't take advantage of others; I'm not a prick tease; I don't say things to take pleasure in someone else's pain - people aren't commodities to me. If that had been what the site was about, I wouldn't have touched it with a barge pole.
But if you read some of the member statements, you'll see something else:
"I'm not going to change for anyone but myself. I refuse to live by anyone else's standards but MINE and MINE alone."
"Define yourself. If you let someone else do it for you, imagine your disappointment when you find out they're wrong."
"Trust your gut. Know what's important to you and don't let anybody fuck with it. And never, never, never give up your power."
"I guess what really makes me a Heartless Bitch, is my uncompromising feelings towards blind faith (which I guess includes blind patriotism), hatred (especially racism), objectifying men, women, animals; laziness especially when it comes to thinking, and superficiality-(not to be confused with politeness)."
And then there's mine, of course:
"Why be a sun god when you can be Hekate or Isis? Strength, creativity, compassion - join the dark side!"
So why call it "Heartless bitches"? How many times has a woman been called a 'bitch' for speaking her mind? For standing up for what she believes in? Called 'heartless' because she won't give way to someone else's requests or needs? She's seen as not nurturing enough, not caring enough, when all she is doing is drawing boundaries.
Fuck that. To quote Christina Aguilera:
So, what, am I not supposed to have an opinion?
Should I keep quiet just because I'm a woman?
Call me a 'bitch' 'cause I speak what's on my mind
Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled
...
This is for my girls all around the world (Around the world)
Who have come across a man that don't respect your worth
Thinkin' all women should be seen not heard
So what do we do girls? shout louder!
Lettin 'em know we're gonna stand our ground (Stand our ground)
So lift your hands high and wave 'em proud
Take a deep breath and say it loud
Never can, never will
Can't hold us down
So, what, am I not supposed to say what I'm saying -
Are you offended with the message I'm bringin'?
Call me whatever 'cause your words don't mean a thing
Guess you ain't even man enough to handle what I sing
I'm fascinated by how uncomfortable my pleasure in being a member of this group made some of my friends - both male and female. It was almost as if I'd betrayed them by not remaining the warm and fuzzy friend that they know and love.
But I'm not sure they understand that I can *be* that warm, fuzzy and caring friend if and *only* if I'm in touch with my dark side: the side that could put a gun to the temple of a Taliban warrior and pull the trigger without flinching; the side that can tear a strip off someone in anger; the part that wishes natural selection would eliminate various members of the human race; the part fascinated by the darker side of human nature. That dark side of me doesn't negate the light but *completes* it, balances it - gives it depth. Embracing the darkness gives the light texture, endowing it with a far more interesting quality - think of an eclipse.
Not acknowledging all aspects of ourselves means that nothing we do is real. It means that we are forever at the mercy of someone else's rules, someone else's approval and that we are constantly lying about who we are. I'm not saying we need to act on it - remember, most eclipses aren't total -but we need to be conversant with those sides of ourselves; otherwise we never act consciously, and those repressed/ignored sides control us rather than the other way round.
Now, I'm not saying EVERY strong opinion/dislike is indicative of problems with shadow. For example, I'm anti-death penalty for various reasons - but I *can listen to* the arguments FOR the death penalty without feeling threatened or unduly upset. I used to be pro death penalty and have thought about, understand the passion on and am happy to HEAR both sides. Yes, I have a strong opinion, but it's integrated. Ditto my very orthodox Catholic friend, John Ferris (who deserves an entry of his own), who disagrees with me very strongly on many things, but actually *listens* and remains unthreatened by my counterarguments. He has even said he learns a great deal from them. So do I - we have the BEST conversations; ones I think evangelicals would refer to as 'anointed'.
On the other hand, if one looks at those who follow rules most rigidly and are most threatened by challenge, we often find gaping holes in their integrity and an unsettling *amorality*. Taking a look at the Newman Society, they follow liturgical rules to the letter and parrot Catholic teaching on everything endlessly. You don't have to look too closely to see the breathtaking callousness/nastiness with which they treat other people, priests and laity alike, until they need to use them to achieve their own ends. Look at the 'love and light and no darkness'/'we don't believe in status' evangelicals, and you'll find plenty of anger, competitiveness and jockeying for position. Religious people may attack secular society for being selfish, but I've never seen narcissism on this scale outside religion. Denying it and driving it underground takes a natural regard for self, which might otherwise integrate itself into a healthy personality, hardens it, and turns it into narcissism.
Frankly, I'd rather be a heartless bitch. Moral rigidity is never a real position...as noted by others, it is an exoskeleton created to contain internal chaos. But exoskeletons, hard as they seem, are brittle (and crunch nicely underfoot, says the HB in me). They will never have the strength and flexibility of an endoskeleton.
True strength and support always starts from within.
And all that leaves aside the gifts of the dark side: depth, real power, authenticity, soul, a touch of wildness and mystery, the ability to laugh at yourself and stand up for others. We all need to go there and cheer eachother on as we do.
*Grins ruefully at self* This morning, I realised I could have put this all so much more simply: we're like orange juice cartons. The concentrate - with its richness and flavour - is at the bottom...very often, we can be a little thin, without so much flavour, at the top.
To have full richness and flavour all the way through, we need to remember to shake before opening.
I feel like living proof of the first part of Newton's first law of motion: an object at rest shall remain at rest. Boy, do I need an unbalanced force...
...and I got it in the form of an email that I might have missed, if I didn't check my spam email so carefully.
A few weeks ago, just after my real (not official) birthday, I applied to become a member at this site. I honestly didn't think I'd make it, since I had to offer up my blog as well as a short essay as proof of the quality mentioned.
I knew that if I hadn't made it by the next round of site updates, I hadn't made it. So I kept checking.
Tuesday morning, I pumped my fist as I saw an email from the website in my spam box. When I opened it, I proudly read:
* SAVE THIS MESSAGE FOR FUTURE REFERENCE*
Congratulations! You have just become an official member of Heartless Bitches International: The sauciest, ass-kickingest, fiercest Web site this side of the continental divide! We make NO apologies for who we are, and we take NO prisoners.
Some or all of your comments (from your application) have been added to the pages of Real Life Heartless Bitches
Check and see if you were singled out for "Exemplary Heartless Bitchitude"!
YESSSSSSSSSSSSS! If you want to read most of the application, it's here.
Bless one of my friends, when I told her, she said I was anything but a heartless bitch.
If the phrase is used in a particular way, perhaps. I don't take advantage of others; I'm not a prick tease; I don't say things to take pleasure in someone else's pain - people aren't commodities to me. If that had been what the site was about, I wouldn't have touched it with a barge pole.
But if you read some of the member statements, you'll see something else:
"I'm not going to change for anyone but myself. I refuse to live by anyone else's standards but MINE and MINE alone."
"Define yourself. If you let someone else do it for you, imagine your disappointment when you find out they're wrong."
"Trust your gut. Know what's important to you and don't let anybody fuck with it. And never, never, never give up your power."
"I guess what really makes me a Heartless Bitch, is my uncompromising feelings towards blind faith (which I guess includes blind patriotism), hatred (especially racism), objectifying men, women, animals; laziness especially when it comes to thinking, and superficiality-(not to be confused with politeness)."
And then there's mine, of course:
"Why be a sun god when you can be Hekate or Isis? Strength, creativity, compassion - join the dark side!"
So why call it "Heartless bitches"? How many times has a woman been called a 'bitch' for speaking her mind? For standing up for what she believes in? Called 'heartless' because she won't give way to someone else's requests or needs? She's seen as not nurturing enough, not caring enough, when all she is doing is drawing boundaries.
Fuck that. To quote Christina Aguilera:
So, what, am I not supposed to have an opinion?
Should I keep quiet just because I'm a woman?
Call me a 'bitch' 'cause I speak what's on my mind
Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled
...
This is for my girls all around the world (Around the world)
Who have come across a man that don't respect your worth
Thinkin' all women should be seen not heard
So what do we do girls? shout louder!
Lettin 'em know we're gonna stand our ground (Stand our ground)
So lift your hands high and wave 'em proud
Take a deep breath and say it loud
Never can, never will
Can't hold us down
So, what, am I not supposed to say what I'm saying -
Are you offended with the message I'm bringin'?
Call me whatever 'cause your words don't mean a thing
Guess you ain't even man enough to handle what I sing
I'm fascinated by how uncomfortable my pleasure in being a member of this group made some of my friends - both male and female. It was almost as if I'd betrayed them by not remaining the warm and fuzzy friend that they know and love.
But I'm not sure they understand that I can *be* that warm, fuzzy and caring friend if and *only* if I'm in touch with my dark side: the side that could put a gun to the temple of a Taliban warrior and pull the trigger without flinching; the side that can tear a strip off someone in anger; the part that wishes natural selection would eliminate various members of the human race; the part fascinated by the darker side of human nature. That dark side of me doesn't negate the light but *completes* it, balances it - gives it depth. Embracing the darkness gives the light texture, endowing it with a far more interesting quality - think of an eclipse.
Not acknowledging all aspects of ourselves means that nothing we do is real. It means that we are forever at the mercy of someone else's rules, someone else's approval and that we are constantly lying about who we are. I'm not saying we need to act on it - remember, most eclipses aren't total -but we need to be conversant with those sides of ourselves; otherwise we never act consciously, and those repressed/ignored sides control us rather than the other way round.
Now, I'm not saying EVERY strong opinion/dislike is indicative of problems with shadow. For example, I'm anti-death penalty for various reasons - but I *can listen to* the arguments FOR the death penalty without feeling threatened or unduly upset. I used to be pro death penalty and have thought about, understand the passion on and am happy to HEAR both sides. Yes, I have a strong opinion, but it's integrated. Ditto my very orthodox Catholic friend, John Ferris (who deserves an entry of his own), who disagrees with me very strongly on many things, but actually *listens* and remains unthreatened by my counterarguments. He has even said he learns a great deal from them. So do I - we have the BEST conversations; ones I think evangelicals would refer to as 'anointed'.
On the other hand, if one looks at those who follow rules most rigidly and are most threatened by challenge, we often find gaping holes in their integrity and an unsettling *amorality*. Taking a look at the Newman Society, they follow liturgical rules to the letter and parrot Catholic teaching on everything endlessly. You don't have to look too closely to see the breathtaking callousness/nastiness with which they treat other people, priests and laity alike, until they need to use them to achieve their own ends. Look at the 'love and light and no darkness'/'we don't believe in status' evangelicals, and you'll find plenty of anger, competitiveness and jockeying for position. Religious people may attack secular society for being selfish, but I've never seen narcissism on this scale outside religion. Denying it and driving it underground takes a natural regard for self, which might otherwise integrate itself into a healthy personality, hardens it, and turns it into narcissism.
Frankly, I'd rather be a heartless bitch. Moral rigidity is never a real position...as noted by others, it is an exoskeleton created to contain internal chaos. But exoskeletons, hard as they seem, are brittle (and crunch nicely underfoot, says the HB in me). They will never have the strength and flexibility of an endoskeleton.
True strength and support always starts from within.
And all that leaves aside the gifts of the dark side: depth, real power, authenticity, soul, a touch of wildness and mystery, the ability to laugh at yourself and stand up for others. We all need to go there and cheer eachother on as we do.
*Grins ruefully at self* This morning, I realised I could have put this all so much more simply: we're like orange juice cartons. The concentrate - with its richness and flavour - is at the bottom...very often, we can be a little thin, without so much flavour, at the top.
To have full richness and flavour all the way through, we need to remember to shake before opening.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Chaperone cat
Absolutely brilliant. I'm still laughing.
As a well-endowed female, I've had my share of men talk to my cleavage rather than my face, and only once have I had the nerve to say, "If you want to know what my bra size is, why don't you look me in the eye and ask me?"
Let me be clear from the start: sexual harrassment and objectification of *either* gender is NOT acceptable. Within that framework, though, I have to admit - and I'll probably get flamed by the sisterhood for this - that I love my cleavage, and a man talking to it merely amuses me. I'm a gleeful exponent of the 'four millisecond' rule: every male, straight or gay, looks at a woman's cleavage for 4 milliseconds before looking up. If a guy breaks the four millisecond rule (i.e., looks for longer), I tend to assume he's straight. Having serious cleavage is great gaydar confirmation.
I suspect I'm not bothered because I'm not a beautiful woman (the only way I'll stop traffic is by using the crosswalk light at pedestrian crossings), so I don't get stared at and treated as an object/commodity. I'm pretty enough for all normal purposes, to quote "Our Town", and that's good enough for me. The guys staring at my chest whilst talking to me already know me and are interested in what I'm *saying* whilst admiring my assets, which is a different kettle of fish from the leering stranger with a drink in hand.
For the latter type, chaperone cat with sharp claws would be extremely useful:
I love the wee added comment on icanhascheezburger:
but her eyez r sew purtee.
So, guys, don't forget to look up - you may even find out more than just her bra size.
As a well-endowed female, I've had my share of men talk to my cleavage rather than my face, and only once have I had the nerve to say, "If you want to know what my bra size is, why don't you look me in the eye and ask me?"
Let me be clear from the start: sexual harrassment and objectification of *either* gender is NOT acceptable. Within that framework, though, I have to admit - and I'll probably get flamed by the sisterhood for this - that I love my cleavage, and a man talking to it merely amuses me. I'm a gleeful exponent of the 'four millisecond' rule: every male, straight or gay, looks at a woman's cleavage for 4 milliseconds before looking up. If a guy breaks the four millisecond rule (i.e., looks for longer), I tend to assume he's straight. Having serious cleavage is great gaydar confirmation.
I suspect I'm not bothered because I'm not a beautiful woman (the only way I'll stop traffic is by using the crosswalk light at pedestrian crossings), so I don't get stared at and treated as an object/commodity. I'm pretty enough for all normal purposes, to quote "Our Town", and that's good enough for me. The guys staring at my chest whilst talking to me already know me and are interested in what I'm *saying* whilst admiring my assets, which is a different kettle of fish from the leering stranger with a drink in hand.
For the latter type, chaperone cat with sharp claws would be extremely useful:
I love the wee added comment on icanhascheezburger:
but her eyez r sew purtee.
So, guys, don't forget to look up - you may even find out more than just her bra size.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Thoughts on blogging...
Hey look everyone, it's me! Except I'm not quite so grey (yet), and I think I have a slightly more hourglass (rather than large watermelon) silhouette...
I've put that up in case I - or anyone else (*coughPiusX&theconservativeCatholicmafiacough*) -
take myself and my blog too seriously. I blog because I love to write and it spares my friends the long emails with my thoughts on everything from religion to "Sex and the City" (coming up shortly!).
Come here if you're friend (in person or online) or family and want to catch up. Come here if you're interested in a slice of someone else's life or what someone else may be thinking. Come here for a laugh, or if you like what I have to say or if you want a good debate. Occasionally, go away with a new view of things, whether you change your mind or not.
But don't come here just to lay down your version of the law, beat up on someone else or to assuage your insecurities by spouting the 'truth', claiming I'm leading others astray. If you think that, you seriously overestimate my influence.
Essentially, the bottom line for me is this: writing is one of my passions, and as an early child of the MSWord/WordPerfect age, I'm much better at an electronic journal. My blog is a chance for me to think out loud, to play with words, to share my life with friends and meet new and cool people (e.g., Reiza).
I'd love to have you come and play in my sandbox - but no bullies allowed.
I've put that up in case I - or anyone else (*coughPiusX&theconservativeCatholicmafiacough*) -
take myself and my blog too seriously. I blog because I love to write and it spares my friends the long emails with my thoughts on everything from religion to "Sex and the City" (coming up shortly!).
Come here if you're friend (in person or online) or family and want to catch up. Come here if you're interested in a slice of someone else's life or what someone else may be thinking. Come here for a laugh, or if you like what I have to say or if you want a good debate. Occasionally, go away with a new view of things, whether you change your mind or not.
But don't come here just to lay down your version of the law, beat up on someone else or to assuage your insecurities by spouting the 'truth', claiming I'm leading others astray. If you think that, you seriously overestimate my influence.
Essentially, the bottom line for me is this: writing is one of my passions, and as an early child of the MSWord/WordPerfect age, I'm much better at an electronic journal. My blog is a chance for me to think out loud, to play with words, to share my life with friends and meet new and cool people (e.g., Reiza).
I'd love to have you come and play in my sandbox - but no bullies allowed.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Foot (or hoof?) in mouth disease
As I've mentioned before, having Ruth as a friend helps my natural predilection for hoof-in-mouth disease (mine are cloven, thanks, which makes me kosher), but she isn't the cause.
What you need to know for this is that I need to update my profile - I left the Dominicans last July, since the position was a 2 year contract. I've since started a similar (but permanent) job at an evangelical library (do we sense a theme?).
The evangelicals are lovely and earnest, which plays right into my tendency for dry humour and shock value.
Sometimes, I even shock myself.
As we were standing around at Gosia's & my surprise birthday party last Tuesday, my friend Christine was telling the academic dean & a senior faculty member about friends of hers who wanted to go to Gander (sp?), Australia for their honeymoon. For some reason, they didn't make this clear to the travel agent, and ended up in the other Gander - in the Arctic Circle.
(Wouldn't you check your tickets???)
Anyway, according to Christine, "They were disappointed at first, but it turned out to be even better."
Without thinking, I responded to Christine as if she were alone: "Yes, because the whole point is to keep eachother warm, isn't it?"
Shocked silence before she burst out laughing and I realised WHOM I'd said it in front of. I turned to her, "I said that out loud, didn't I? Oh crap!" Which, of course, made her laugh even harder.
I have to say, I've never seen men over 60 move so fast...
What you need to know for this is that I need to update my profile - I left the Dominicans last July, since the position was a 2 year contract. I've since started a similar (but permanent) job at an evangelical library (do we sense a theme?).
The evangelicals are lovely and earnest, which plays right into my tendency for dry humour and shock value.
Sometimes, I even shock myself.
As we were standing around at Gosia's & my surprise birthday party last Tuesday, my friend Christine was telling the academic dean & a senior faculty member about friends of hers who wanted to go to Gander (sp?), Australia for their honeymoon. For some reason, they didn't make this clear to the travel agent, and ended up in the other Gander - in the Arctic Circle.
(Wouldn't you check your tickets???)
Anyway, according to Christine, "They were disappointed at first, but it turned out to be even better."
Without thinking, I responded to Christine as if she were alone: "Yes, because the whole point is to keep eachother warm, isn't it?"
Shocked silence before she burst out laughing and I realised WHOM I'd said it in front of. I turned to her, "I said that out loud, didn't I? Oh crap!" Which, of course, made her laugh even harder.
I have to say, I've never seen men over 60 move so fast...
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Father's Day?
There are days, then there are DAYS.
Wednesday, 14 May was a DAY.
It started off innocuously enough: sunny, pleasant walk into work, morning coffee. I did sense something percolating beneath my (reasonably) serene surface, so I didn't expect it to be completely calm.
It started with my Facebook status: I had meant to type in something light, but my fingers took on a life of their own and typed in "Irim should smack herself for believing that someone who shares so many characteristics with her father could be redeemable." What was it about? There were two answers to that, and over the course of the day, I gave both.
Most of my friends steered clear. Clare, bless her, jumped right in and asked what was up - whether it was family stuff or something else. She got the answer that was uppermost in my mind: the sudden realisation that a male friend of mine is VERY like my father - very controlled; tends to mask aggression behind teasing/humour; is given to sudden outbursts of anger, but will never admit that he's angry; has a sense of humour, but seems incapable of laughing at himself or admitting his foibles; is alternately emotionally present/emotionally distant.
What makes me really angry is that I've responded the way I did to my father growing up: walking on eggshells, steering conflict away from him (e.g., not telling him, "You idiot, of course s/he had the right to be furious with you; you were totally irresponsible!"), not showing him the consequences of his actions, letting him/his life dominate the conversation, and - the worst of it - checking to make sure everything is ok when he's being distant.
I really thought I'd learned.
From the above description, I'm sure a lot of you are wondering *why* I'm friends with him at all. There's a wonderful side to him as well - funny, protective, thoughtful, and a good, perceptive listener. That's the person I met, became really good friends with and went to when I had family issues. Over the last year or so, he just hasn't been there when the going got tough, and he's more likely to make a snide comment rather than listen.
If it were once, ok. Twice, if it were clear he'd been having a tough time. But this has become a habit, as has his lashing out when he's been drinking (considering it takes alcohol at least 24 hours to clear your system, I'm not sure he's been completely sober in years), and I just can't go there anymore.
I'll do anything to save a friendship, and it takes me a long time to decide I won't take it anymore. This pattern isn't healthy for either of us - and I'll take my full share of responsibility for how it has gone - I should have been true to myself rather than try to keep the peace. After a long exchange with Clare, where she listened and gave lots of support, I decided that I've really had enough. If my friend can find his way to being honest about how he feels and why, I can and will be there. Until then, no. I didn't leave my father's house over a decade ago to replay my relationship with him.
A little while later, another friend asked about my status.
She got the parental answer - that my uncle wouldn't listen to anything I had to say and was pushing too hard towards a reconciliation with my parents.
She asked a lot of thoughtful questions - we talked about my father, then she asked the showstopper - what about my mother?
The mother another friend assumed was dead because I never spoke of her.
My father may be manipulative, but he's overt. My mother invites confidences and betrays them, pulls the helpless tear shower on friends and relatives, who then tell me how much pain she's in - and once I'm within reach, she'll hand me over to my father and join in the nastiness.
I know she's cried to my uncle and aunt and told them how desperate she is to be in touch. Hard as this is to say, because of our history, I remain unmoved.
So her more subtle, covert betrayal has made reconciliation with her more difficult. In a weird way, my father has more integrity; he just is what he is. She is what makes her life easier at the time, and you never know where she really stands.
And yeah, I'm very aware that's what I was turning into with above-mentioned friend. *Shudder*
To top it all off, that evening, an older male friend had a real go via email over something I thought we'd sorted a month or so ago. And he managed to sound...you guessed it...just like my father.
A trinity of happenings with my father as the central theme - the universe's way of telling me to wake up and pay attention.
Yes, Wednesday, 14 May was an emotionally exhausting day. But it reminded me of how loved and blessed I am by my friends, how strong I am, and that things are moving forward.
Deo gratias.
Now it's time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Wednesday, 14 May was a DAY.
It started off innocuously enough: sunny, pleasant walk into work, morning coffee. I did sense something percolating beneath my (reasonably) serene surface, so I didn't expect it to be completely calm.
It started with my Facebook status: I had meant to type in something light, but my fingers took on a life of their own and typed in "Irim should smack herself for believing that someone who shares so many characteristics with her father could be redeemable." What was it about? There were two answers to that, and over the course of the day, I gave both.
Most of my friends steered clear. Clare, bless her, jumped right in and asked what was up - whether it was family stuff or something else. She got the answer that was uppermost in my mind: the sudden realisation that a male friend of mine is VERY like my father - very controlled; tends to mask aggression behind teasing/humour; is given to sudden outbursts of anger, but will never admit that he's angry; has a sense of humour, but seems incapable of laughing at himself or admitting his foibles; is alternately emotionally present/emotionally distant.
What makes me really angry is that I've responded the way I did to my father growing up: walking on eggshells, steering conflict away from him (e.g., not telling him, "You idiot, of course s/he had the right to be furious with you; you were totally irresponsible!"), not showing him the consequences of his actions, letting him/his life dominate the conversation, and - the worst of it - checking to make sure everything is ok when he's being distant.
I really thought I'd learned.
From the above description, I'm sure a lot of you are wondering *why* I'm friends with him at all. There's a wonderful side to him as well - funny, protective, thoughtful, and a good, perceptive listener. That's the person I met, became really good friends with and went to when I had family issues. Over the last year or so, he just hasn't been there when the going got tough, and he's more likely to make a snide comment rather than listen.
If it were once, ok. Twice, if it were clear he'd been having a tough time. But this has become a habit, as has his lashing out when he's been drinking (considering it takes alcohol at least 24 hours to clear your system, I'm not sure he's been completely sober in years), and I just can't go there anymore.
I'll do anything to save a friendship, and it takes me a long time to decide I won't take it anymore. This pattern isn't healthy for either of us - and I'll take my full share of responsibility for how it has gone - I should have been true to myself rather than try to keep the peace. After a long exchange with Clare, where she listened and gave lots of support, I decided that I've really had enough. If my friend can find his way to being honest about how he feels and why, I can and will be there. Until then, no. I didn't leave my father's house over a decade ago to replay my relationship with him.
A little while later, another friend asked about my status.
She got the parental answer - that my uncle wouldn't listen to anything I had to say and was pushing too hard towards a reconciliation with my parents.
She asked a lot of thoughtful questions - we talked about my father, then she asked the showstopper - what about my mother?
The mother another friend assumed was dead because I never spoke of her.
My father may be manipulative, but he's overt. My mother invites confidences and betrays them, pulls the helpless tear shower on friends and relatives, who then tell me how much pain she's in - and once I'm within reach, she'll hand me over to my father and join in the nastiness.
I know she's cried to my uncle and aunt and told them how desperate she is to be in touch. Hard as this is to say, because of our history, I remain unmoved.
So her more subtle, covert betrayal has made reconciliation with her more difficult. In a weird way, my father has more integrity; he just is what he is. She is what makes her life easier at the time, and you never know where she really stands.
And yeah, I'm very aware that's what I was turning into with above-mentioned friend. *Shudder*
To top it all off, that evening, an older male friend had a real go via email over something I thought we'd sorted a month or so ago. And he managed to sound...you guessed it...just like my father.
A trinity of happenings with my father as the central theme - the universe's way of telling me to wake up and pay attention.
Yes, Wednesday, 14 May was an emotionally exhausting day. But it reminded me of how loved and blessed I am by my friends, how strong I am, and that things are moving forward.
Deo gratias.
Now it's time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Reason #862...
...not to allow Ruth and me to sit together during mass.
Ok, maybe 863 and 864 as well.
I only went to mass last night because I had to read, which went smoothly enough until I discovered the 4 page sequence in small print after the second reading. I looked over at Fr Richard Nixon (not his real name, just the ex-president's doppleganger) like 'you're joking, right?' and he mouthed over, 'Just the Alleluia', which I found (after flipping another damn page) and read.
Ruth was laughing like a drain when I came down and, accurately imitating my expression as Fr Nixon began the gospel reading, said, "I saw you say 'what the fuck'."
As he reached, "The Gospel according to...", I said, "Oh my god, did you hear me over the mike or did you lipread me (Ruth is a disability librarian)?"
She laughed even harder. "I lipread you."
Then, of course, there was the general naughtiness during the homily.
Finally, (and this was what I was thinking of as reason #862) there was the deacon's incredibly assured and graceful genuflection before the tabernacle whilst carrying the cruets in one hand and something else in the other. Yes, every deacon/priest genuflects when they do that, but he didn't even stop moving. As Ruth said, "THAT was really, really good. That is NOT easy."
I replied, still kneeling post-communion: "He is, isn't he? By the way, you ought to see him in trousers. He's got a really great a..."
Ruth, kneeling and hands folded: "Oh yeah, I can tell."
Ready or not, Hell, here we come...
Ok, maybe 863 and 864 as well.
I only went to mass last night because I had to read, which went smoothly enough until I discovered the 4 page sequence in small print after the second reading. I looked over at Fr Richard Nixon (not his real name, just the ex-president's doppleganger) like 'you're joking, right?' and he mouthed over, 'Just the Alleluia', which I found (after flipping another damn page) and read.
Ruth was laughing like a drain when I came down and, accurately imitating my expression as Fr Nixon began the gospel reading, said, "I saw you say 'what the fuck'."
As he reached, "The Gospel according to...", I said, "Oh my god, did you hear me over the mike or did you lipread me (Ruth is a disability librarian)?"
She laughed even harder. "I lipread you."
Then, of course, there was the general naughtiness during the homily.
Finally, (and this was what I was thinking of as reason #862) there was the deacon's incredibly assured and graceful genuflection before the tabernacle whilst carrying the cruets in one hand and something else in the other. Yes, every deacon/priest genuflects when they do that, but he didn't even stop moving. As Ruth said, "THAT was really, really good. That is NOT easy."
I replied, still kneeling post-communion: "He is, isn't he? By the way, you ought to see him in trousers. He's got a really great a..."
Ruth, kneeling and hands folded: "Oh yeah, I can tell."
Ready or not, Hell, here we come...
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Theological truth
In the beginning, the light and the dark were one, God and Satan were a team, and there was a wholeness in creation that was deeper and stronger than perfection could ever be. Man's unwillingness to live with such natural paradox and tensions rent creation in twain, leaving in him a void, a drive to take sides and dismiss the wholeness inherent in the paradox and setting him on a quest for perfection which would never fulfil him.
But nature would continue to remind him of the wholeness in Her in the smallest, qutest and most amusing of ways:
But it was not yet time for man to remember, and this age would pass and come again before another beginning was to come. As has been said:
"The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose.... The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of time. But it was a beginning." (Robert Jordan)
And in this Third Age, may the beginning come to fruition; the planting come to harvest; and may creation, which has been rent asunder for time beyond remembering, re-weave itself into the wholeness that is the nature granted it by the Creator, blessed be the Name.
But nature would continue to remind him of the wholeness in Her in the smallest, qutest and most amusing of ways:
But it was not yet time for man to remember, and this age would pass and come again before another beginning was to come. As has been said:
"The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose.... The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of time. But it was a beginning." (Robert Jordan)
And in this Third Age, may the beginning come to fruition; the planting come to harvest; and may creation, which has been rent asunder for time beyond remembering, re-weave itself into the wholeness that is the nature granted it by the Creator, blessed be the Name.
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Tag, I'm it
I have finally arrived in the blogosphere - I've been tagged for a meme by Reiza. Hurrah!
Here are the rules:
a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.
Check a and b, now let's move on to c.
1. I can ballroom dance. Just for fun, mind you, and not wonderfully well, but I love it. In the early 90s, a set of friendly acquaintances had a ballroom added onto their house instead of a garage, and they had an openhouse ballroom dance session on Sunday evenings. It was great fun, and I learned that there's nothing like the feeling of waltzing with a 6'3" man who really knows his stuff. It's like flying. Oh, and by the way, the box step is crap. Learn to Viennese - it's the only way forward.
2. I wonder if I could run an Abrahamic religion peace conference: I was born and raised a Muslim, converted to Catholicism, and spent four years teaching at a Modern Orthodox Jewish School in the States (and loved every minute of it). I find that my multiple viewpoints add a lot of depth to my spirituality, but make me feel like a real outsider in any one of the religions. Oddly enough, out of the three, my spirituality is probably most Jewish in nature.
3. I'm a Jungian girl. I love archetypes and use them shamelessly. Some of my favourite books are by Jungian psychologists: "Gods in Everyman" and "Goddesses in Everywoman" by Jean Shinoda Bolen and "Women who run with the wolves" by Clarissa Pinkola-Estes. I'm mostly Demeter with some mature Persephone, as well as some Artemis, I suspect.
4. I HATE 'The people you may know' feature on facebook. If someone isn't my friend on facebook, I don't WANT them as a friend. If I don't know a friend is around, we'll find each other eventually. I am SICK of seeing pictures of random strangers on my newsfeed page b/c some f***wit at facebook thought if you had one or three mutual friends, you should know about eachother.
5. I suffered toilet trauma as a child. When I was about 3, I was watching television with my parents in the master bedroom. I needed to use the loo, so I went into the master bedroom bathroom, as you do. My mother told to me to leave the door open. Good thing, too - just like a man, my father left the toilet seat up, so when I went to sit down, to my complete shock, I fell in - and stayed there, afraid I'd done something terribly wrong. It took over 3 minutes for someone to come and pull me out: my mother was collapsed on the bed in hysterics; my father was trying to be angry, but couldn't help laughing. I was not impressed.
6. I'm a closet sensualist. My clothes are sensible, my oldest jumper (sweater) is 20 years old. The clothes I *want* are very different, though - I'd love to own satin, cashmere, Lauren Bacallesque seriously sexy clothes, but I can never find a reason to buy them - the part of me that says 'clothes are just functional' always wins. These are my dream boots.
I'm tagging:
Midnight Sidhe (I'm not tagging her blog to respect her privacy)
Javasaurus
Sensuous Wife
Blue Eowyn
Da Cute Turtle
Xpioti
Ok, off to let Reiza know I'm done! Hope you enjoyed those random tidbits.
Here are the rules:
a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.
Check a and b, now let's move on to c.
1. I can ballroom dance. Just for fun, mind you, and not wonderfully well, but I love it. In the early 90s, a set of friendly acquaintances had a ballroom added onto their house instead of a garage, and they had an openhouse ballroom dance session on Sunday evenings. It was great fun, and I learned that there's nothing like the feeling of waltzing with a 6'3" man who really knows his stuff. It's like flying. Oh, and by the way, the box step is crap. Learn to Viennese - it's the only way forward.
2. I wonder if I could run an Abrahamic religion peace conference: I was born and raised a Muslim, converted to Catholicism, and spent four years teaching at a Modern Orthodox Jewish School in the States (and loved every minute of it). I find that my multiple viewpoints add a lot of depth to my spirituality, but make me feel like a real outsider in any one of the religions. Oddly enough, out of the three, my spirituality is probably most Jewish in nature.
3. I'm a Jungian girl. I love archetypes and use them shamelessly. Some of my favourite books are by Jungian psychologists: "Gods in Everyman" and "Goddesses in Everywoman" by Jean Shinoda Bolen and "Women who run with the wolves" by Clarissa Pinkola-Estes. I'm mostly Demeter with some mature Persephone, as well as some Artemis, I suspect.
4. I HATE 'The people you may know' feature on facebook. If someone isn't my friend on facebook, I don't WANT them as a friend. If I don't know a friend is around, we'll find each other eventually. I am SICK of seeing pictures of random strangers on my newsfeed page b/c some f***wit at facebook thought if you had one or three mutual friends, you should know about eachother.
5. I suffered toilet trauma as a child. When I was about 3, I was watching television with my parents in the master bedroom. I needed to use the loo, so I went into the master bedroom bathroom, as you do. My mother told to me to leave the door open. Good thing, too - just like a man, my father left the toilet seat up, so when I went to sit down, to my complete shock, I fell in - and stayed there, afraid I'd done something terribly wrong. It took over 3 minutes for someone to come and pull me out: my mother was collapsed on the bed in hysterics; my father was trying to be angry, but couldn't help laughing. I was not impressed.
6. I'm a closet sensualist. My clothes are sensible, my oldest jumper (sweater) is 20 years old. The clothes I *want* are very different, though - I'd love to own satin, cashmere, Lauren Bacallesque seriously sexy clothes, but I can never find a reason to buy them - the part of me that says 'clothes are just functional' always wins. These are my dream boots.
I'm tagging:
Midnight Sidhe (I'm not tagging her blog to respect her privacy)
Javasaurus
Sensuous Wife
Blue Eowyn
Da Cute Turtle
Xpioti
Ok, off to let Reiza know I'm done! Hope you enjoyed those random tidbits.
Monday, 28 April 2008
PC vs Mac
I was surfing the web one morning this week before work. Then I found and had to borrow the following quote for my Facebook status:
Irim : The character of the Mac guy is smug. He is condescending. He's that uber-hipster you love to hate. If you own a Mac, you might want to slap yourself.
This prompted Greg to ask me if the characters in the infamous advert were Mitchell and Webb from the Peep Show.
I was pretty certain they were, and in googling to find my answer, I found an article that expresses my feelings on the subject of Macs.
He is so right about Mac users - any of my friends who have converted to Macdom have just become that little bit more insufferable - defending Macs without giving real reasons, with the exception of Rachel, who is still a bit OTT about her Mac love.
Fair enough, I cut my teeth on PCs and so, they were always going to be the favourite. But their slightly rumpled, thrown together look with their wonderfully reliable workhorse personality continues to endear them to me two decades on. I know I can trust them.
Macintoshes look fabulous, true. They have an easy operating system - and I will agree that the Mac O/S is far better than Bill Gates' Windows - but I find that pretty as they are, I feel restricted by Macs. They don't run the same range of software, they freeze up far more often, and if you were to ask them to run huge, long processes, they'd get up off their irritatingly plastic asses and run screaming. Style, not a whole lot of substance.
I like my computers the way I like my men - substance over style. Every time.
Irim : The character of the Mac guy is smug. He is condescending. He's that uber-hipster you love to hate. If you own a Mac, you might want to slap yourself.
This prompted Greg to ask me if the characters in the infamous advert were Mitchell and Webb from the Peep Show.
I was pretty certain they were, and in googling to find my answer, I found an article that expresses my feelings on the subject of Macs.
He is so right about Mac users - any of my friends who have converted to Macdom have just become that little bit more insufferable - defending Macs without giving real reasons, with the exception of Rachel, who is still a bit OTT about her Mac love.
Fair enough, I cut my teeth on PCs and so, they were always going to be the favourite. But their slightly rumpled, thrown together look with their wonderfully reliable workhorse personality continues to endear them to me two decades on. I know I can trust them.
Macintoshes look fabulous, true. They have an easy operating system - and I will agree that the Mac O/S is far better than Bill Gates' Windows - but I find that pretty as they are, I feel restricted by Macs. They don't run the same range of software, they freeze up far more often, and if you were to ask them to run huge, long processes, they'd get up off their irritatingly plastic asses and run screaming. Style, not a whole lot of substance.
I like my computers the way I like my men - substance over style. Every time.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Deeply ashamed...
Last week, the pope said the words Americans have been waiting to hear for over half a decade. From the Guardian:
Pope Benedict XVI today said he was "deeply ashamed" of the child sex abuse scandal that rocked the US Catholic church, just hours before he was to arrive on his first journey to the US as pontiff.
"I am deeply ashamed and we will do what is possible so this cannot happen again in the future," the 81-year-old pope said, pledging to keep paedophiles out of the priesthood.
FINALLY. And he used the right phrase: "keep *paedophiles* out of the priesthood". Not "keep *gays* out of the priesthood." They are NOT related - most paedos are married, heterosexual men. So why are most victims of Catholic priests boys? In part, opportunity - altar servers tend to be boys, especially in more conservative/orthodox parishes. Also, as both conservatives and liberals will agree, over half of all Catholic priests are gay: therefore, statistically, it's far more likely that a paedophile priest will be gay. It's just down to the composition of the pool.
So we have a promising beginning. But words are only that - a beginning. What actions will follow? Will those who covered up get punished, or will they just get moved to the Vatican like Bernard Law of Boston:
"Law was not only aware of egregious sexual misconduct among his subordinates but was apparently engaged in elaborate efforts to cover up incident after incident of child rape." To be specific, the cardinal admitted in a deposition that he knew that the Rev. John Geoghan had raped at least seven boys in 1984 before he approved Geoghan's transfer to another parish where other boys were at risk. Further disclosures revealed that the Rev. Paul Shanley, who at one point was facing trial for 10 counts of child rape and six counts of indecent assault and battery, had been moved from ministry to ministry in what amounted to an attempt to protect him. Law himself lied to a West Coast bishop about Shanley's history and certified in writing that another rapist priest, the Rev. Redmond Raux, had "nothing in his background" to make him "unsuitable to work with children." (Slate)
Again, conservative or liberal, Law's actions were beyond immoral, they were heinous. He violated the most fundamental premise of the priesthood: to protect the flock. That should have seen him - and those like him - defrocked immediately. Preferably publicly excommunicated. Instead, he's living in comfort in the Vatican, the heart of the Church.
You've taken responsibility, Your Holiness. Thank you. But what next? If you're not quite sure, allow me to offer a line from Jesus himself:
It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should cause one of these little ones to stumble. —Luke 17:2
In which case, you'd best start finding more than a few millstones...
Pope Benedict XVI today said he was "deeply ashamed" of the child sex abuse scandal that rocked the US Catholic church, just hours before he was to arrive on his first journey to the US as pontiff.
"It is a great suffering for the church in the United States and for the Church in general and for me personally that this could happen," Benedict said aboard a special Alitalia airliner, nicknamed Shepherd 1. "It is difficult for me to understand how it was possible that priests betray in this way their mission … to these children.
"I am deeply ashamed and we will do what is possible so this cannot happen again in the future," the 81-year-old pope said, pledging to keep paedophiles out of the priesthood.
FINALLY. And he used the right phrase: "keep *paedophiles* out of the priesthood". Not "keep *gays* out of the priesthood." They are NOT related - most paedos are married, heterosexual men. So why are most victims of Catholic priests boys? In part, opportunity - altar servers tend to be boys, especially in more conservative/orthodox parishes. Also, as both conservatives and liberals will agree, over half of all Catholic priests are gay: therefore, statistically, it's far more likely that a paedophile priest will be gay. It's just down to the composition of the pool.
So we have a promising beginning. But words are only that - a beginning. What actions will follow? Will those who covered up get punished, or will they just get moved to the Vatican like Bernard Law of Boston:
"Law was not only aware of egregious sexual misconduct among his subordinates but was apparently engaged in elaborate efforts to cover up incident after incident of child rape." To be specific, the cardinal admitted in a deposition that he knew that the Rev. John Geoghan had raped at least seven boys in 1984 before he approved Geoghan's transfer to another parish where other boys were at risk. Further disclosures revealed that the Rev. Paul Shanley, who at one point was facing trial for 10 counts of child rape and six counts of indecent assault and battery, had been moved from ministry to ministry in what amounted to an attempt to protect him. Law himself lied to a West Coast bishop about Shanley's history and certified in writing that another rapist priest, the Rev. Redmond Raux, had "nothing in his background" to make him "unsuitable to work with children." (Slate)
Again, conservative or liberal, Law's actions were beyond immoral, they were heinous. He violated the most fundamental premise of the priesthood: to protect the flock. That should have seen him - and those like him - defrocked immediately. Preferably publicly excommunicated. Instead, he's living in comfort in the Vatican, the heart of the Church.
You've taken responsibility, Your Holiness. Thank you. But what next? If you're not quite sure, allow me to offer a line from Jesus himself:
It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should cause one of these little ones to stumble. —Luke 17:2
In which case, you'd best start finding more than a few millstones...
Saturday, 19 April 2008
If you move...
Somehow, this seems deeply appropriate for the Indian subcontinent right now. I picked it up from Reiza, whose blog I was catching up with today.
Pakistan is falling apart and breaking the hearts of everyone who loves her. Sixty years on, it's time to admit that ripping apart the subcontinent, tearing people from their mixed neighbourhoods and the deaths of millions - in the name of religion - have all been in vain.
Pakistan is a failed state. Bangladesh, despite having some of the most fertile land in the world, is one of the most poverty-stricken countries.
We forgot the most basic principle: divided we fall, united we stand.
Drop the borders and come home. It won't be easy, but we will be one people, one land again.
And then, as the song goes, when you move - when WE move - as one, the country will move.
Cheesy video? Absolutely. (Over to Yaq for the full translation, since his will be more poetic than mine.) But it's such a beautiful demonstration of how we react to obstacles: we whinge, we turn around and go the other way, we whinge some more and refuse to push through.
But if ONE person faces the obstacle head on and decides to start pushing their way through it, others join in, and what had seemed impossible becomes certain. It show how collective responsibility - and triumph - begins with individual responsibility.
The subcontinent is just a starting point. When we ALL drop our borders and move as one, there's no telling what we can do when the spirit of Ganesh moves through us to remove obstacles.
Heaven on earth sounds like a good start.
So, chalo.
Pakistan is falling apart and breaking the hearts of everyone who loves her. Sixty years on, it's time to admit that ripping apart the subcontinent, tearing people from their mixed neighbourhoods and the deaths of millions - in the name of religion - have all been in vain.
Pakistan is a failed state. Bangladesh, despite having some of the most fertile land in the world, is one of the most poverty-stricken countries.
We forgot the most basic principle: divided we fall, united we stand.
Drop the borders and come home. It won't be easy, but we will be one people, one land again.
And then, as the song goes, when you move - when WE move - as one, the country will move.
Cheesy video? Absolutely. (Over to Yaq for the full translation, since his will be more poetic than mine.) But it's such a beautiful demonstration of how we react to obstacles: we whinge, we turn around and go the other way, we whinge some more and refuse to push through.
But if ONE person faces the obstacle head on and decides to start pushing their way through it, others join in, and what had seemed impossible becomes certain. It show how collective responsibility - and triumph - begins with individual responsibility.
The subcontinent is just a starting point. When we ALL drop our borders and move as one, there's no telling what we can do when the spirit of Ganesh moves through us to remove obstacles.
Heaven on earth sounds like a good start.
So, chalo.
Teh best Baibl tranzlashun evur...Srsly.
I have gone through many versions of holy books and God in my search for the Truth...Trinity, Flying Spaghetti Monster, Baldur...
I've finally discovered the truth - God as Ceiling Cat. It's just so...right.
I tried God as Father and Trinity. Honest, I did. But there were huge gaps right from the creation story. Compare the Judaeo-Christian story with Ceiling Cat's:Boreded Ceiling Cat makinkgz Urf n stuffs
1 Oh hai. In teh beginnin Ceiling Cat maded teh skiez An da Urfs, but he did not eated dem.
2 Da Urfs no had shapez An haded dark face, An Ceiling Cat rode invisible bike over teh waterz.
3 At start, no has lyte. An Ceiling Cat sayz, i can haz lite? An lite wuz.4 An Ceiling Cat sawed teh lite, to seez stuffs, An splitted teh lite from dark but taht wuz ok cuz kittehs can see in teh dark An not tripz over nethin.I'm greeted at the beginning: "Oh hai". Wouldn't you say that to one of your followers? "Oh hai, glad u wantz to findz out how u wuz made." Of course you would. Even though they were reading, it would be like talking to them. That's a God thing.
Ceiling Cat was boreded. That answers the eternal question, "WHY make heaven and urf?" Why not? Especially if there's nuffin else to do.
"He did not eated them." I always wondered that. God must have been hungry - creation was a lot of work. Why hadn't God eated his creation? Now I know it was a struggle, and he didn't, it makes me love Ceiling Cat so much more. He hadn't eated us because he so loved us, he sent us his only son, Jeebus.
"Invisible bike": far more sensible than breathing on the waters. I mean, how far can a breath travel? Bike, as long as he wasn't riding it on the pavement (which he wasn't, b/c it wasn't created yet) - fabulous, green solution.
And separating light and dark - no problem for kittehs, which was a huge relief for me.
Enough of Genesis. Another section of the Old Testament I had problems with was poor translations of the 23rd psalm - 'drooping spirit' indeed. Compare that with this:
1 Ceiling Cat iz mai sheprd (which is funni if u knowz teh joek about herdin catz LOL.)
He givz me evrithin I need.
2 He letz me sleeps in teh sunni spot
an haz liek nice waterz r ovar thar.
3 He makez mai soul happi an maeks sure I go teh riet wai for him. Liek thru teh cat flap insted of out teh opin windo LOL.
4 I iz in teh valli of dogz, fearin no pooch,
bcz Ceiling Cat iz besied me rubbin' mah ears, an it maek me so kumfy.
"Letz me sleep in the sunni spot", "Makez mai soul happi", "maek me so kumfy" - isn't that what a parent would do for his child? How much more then would our Ceiling Cat father in heaven do for us??
One section I've always struggled to understand is the whole thing about the robber and sheepfold and gates. Confuzed. But Ceiling Cat's son, Jeebus/Jesus makes it all clear:
1 Jesus say "k gais i is for srs, if ur in shepfold and u no goes thru dor, u is r0bbr.
2 but if u can goez in thru shepfold door, is ur shepfold.
3 cuz that means shepfold dorman see u and all ur sheepz hearz u. cuz u give shepz names and takez them from shepfold
4 and so the shepz hearz name and folowz cuz is shepfold gai an hear liek teh shepfold gai.
5 but if iz no shepfold gai, sheepz no folow cos is no shepfold gai and no sowndz like shepfold guy so shepz are like: run awai! is no shepfold gai!"
It's so simple now - if you don't enter through the door, you are a thief and the sheep won't follow anyone who is not the shepfold gai. And this is so clearly the informal way that Jesus would address his friends: "K gais, I is for srs," letting them know they needed to take notes.
And their reaction is so predictable, it's refreshing to have it uncensored:
6 Teh gaiz wer liek "wtf u talkin bout sheepz 4? i has no klu wat u meanz."
Can't you just hear Peter's whiny little voice? Rock, my a**. Mud, more like.
And Jesus' willingness to reiterate and reassure:
7 Jesus sez agn "k, lsn srsly gais, i iz shep door.
8 Erleer peepz was r0bberz, n sheepz was like: i no lisn 2 u.
9 I iz door. (I iz opn door, so u no need 2 compln, k?) U goes thru me, u iz ok, n u go in n u com out n u getz nice gras n stuf.
10 R0bberz d00dz steelz ur stuff n kilz u. I iz here so u can has lots of lif.
"I iz opn door, so u no need 2 compln, k?" - a neon sign with clear instructions.
And finally, the reason for all people to come to Ceiling Cat and Jeebus:
25 We were n00bs, but Jeebus takes teh n00b awai.
Absolutely. As long as that isn't a mistranslation that is meant to read "Jeebus takes the b00b away", all is well - because no one is taking my b00bs, not even Ceiling Cat. They rock.
But as for n00bness, well, we can all afford to lose that. Rock on, Jeebus and Ceiling Cat.
Amen.
Friday, 18 April 2008
The rewards of cataloguing
One of the big ones is being on the cataloguer's mailing list for emails like these:
Dear colleague,
On lcn 10109488 (The Complete tales of Henry James), which is a
twelve-volume work, you have a piece linked to a part record for a v.13:
XXX Main Libr 813.46 13 v.13 Available
Please could you check your copy and amend the holding? Thanks.
Best wishes,
S.
********************************************************
Cataloguing god of one of the foremost university libraries in the world.
Get it? Good. Now FIX it!
*******************************************************
I couldn't stop laughing, and as S. is a friend, I emailed him back with:
Dear colleague,
On lcn 10109488 (The Complete tales of Henry James), which is a
twelve-volume work, you have a piece linked to a part record for a v.13:
XXX Main Libr 813.46 13 v.13 Available
Please could you check your copy and amend the holding? Thanks.
Best wishes,
S.
********************************************************
Cataloguing god of one of the foremost university libraries in the world.
Get it? Good. Now FIX it!
*******************************************************
I couldn't stop laughing, and as S. is a friend, I emailed him back with:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Maybe it's the very rare v. 13 out of 12 that very few people know about... a ghostly one...
Ixx
(Think "Turn of the Screw")
His response?
Now now. We mustn't mock those poor people who never learnt to count beyond the number of their digits.
************************************************************
I'm sure that's in the 11th commandment somewhere ("Mockest not those who should be lost to natural selection"), but as I'm already coveting Ruth's pencil skirt, I might as well keep heading down that slippery slope...
(Think "Turn of the Screw")
His response?
Now now. We mustn't mock those poor people who never learnt to count beyond the number of their digits.
************************************************************
I'm sure that's in the 11th commandment somewhere ("Mockest not those who should be lost to natural selection"), but as I'm already coveting Ruth's pencil skirt, I might as well keep heading down that slippery slope...
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Desi dinner
On Thursday night, 13 March, my friend Yaqoob invited me to dinner. As it was the first time I was actually going to witness a South Asian male cooking, the only option was acceptance.
He said that a couple of his neighbours would probably be joining us. I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of a couple of flighty college students intruding on the evening, but the draw of Yaq standing in front of a stove was too strong to resist.
I arrived slightly early for 'Pakistani time' - about 15 minutes after our agreed time of 8pm (no excuse, I'd gotten caught up doing some quick work for the priory). When we got to Yaq's room, there were two other young South Asian men there: Rahul, a fellow Washingtonian of Sindhi descent studying immunology; and Anirudh, a Delhi lad studying law. Rahul, true to his American origin, was extroverted, enthusiastic and sweet. Anirudh was quieter and far drier, with a sharp eye and an equally sharp wit.
Hmmm. *Three* South Asian men, where I'd only expected one. I'm not great with subcontinental men at the best of times. It didn't look good.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The conversation sparkled: mixed Urdu & English, South Asian gestures and references flowed effortlessly. There was amicable competition among regions - as the lone Punjaban, I got to slag off Urdu, which was being vaunted as 'such a beautiful language' - one I consider style and no substance. Punjabi, on the other hand, has grit. It's a cheeky member of the Indo-European family, daring to be tonal and earthy. The sound of Punjabi is unmistakable: as a Punjaban, anytime I hear it, my head swivels so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, and despite being American born, I'm at home.
As a Lahore born NWFPer, Yaq supported me on this one, talking about his Lahori Urdu and how he wanted to speak Punjabi, whilst the other two clucked their tongues and shook their heads knowingly.
Then Rahul made a fatal error. He said, "You know, I really love bhangra music."
"Really?" I replied, attempting to look harmless. "Bhangra music is fantastic, innit - and it's PUNJABI."
Silence. Game, set, match - Irim and the Punjab.
The next topic of conversation, of course, had to be our host and his new girlfriend. As the president of the (uber-Catholic, conservative gay men in denial) Newman Society, Yaq had adopted a certain way of being, and I was a bit worried that she was a beard. That fear was allayed when Rahul and Anirudh gleefully recounted the story of walking into Yaq's unlocked flat, knowing she was there - and Yaq rushing to the door, his jumper somewhat, erm, disarranged (helpfully pointed out by Ani: "It looks like you have put your jumper on in a hurry").
Since I can't keep my mouth shut, time for me to chime in. Yaq kept trying to reach his girlfriend. First her flat, then her mobile, then her friend's flat. I suggested he was being a typically controlling South Asian male and that he should stop. As his searching became more frantic, I jokingly floated the idea that perhaps she wasn't at her friend's at all, but was actually seeing someone else.
Even as he laughed and denied it, you could see Yaq's tension skyrocket and his attempts to reach F become more determined.
Ani looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear. "I think you've pushed him over the edge. That's just the primal fear for South Asian men, isn't it?" (Men everywhere, of course, but South Asian men are in another league when it comes to obsessing about it.)
Sweetheart, I cut my teeth on the South Asian male psyche. Driving them round the bend is like taking candy from a baby.
It turned out F was at her friend's watching "The West Wing". Yaq mentioned to her that I had said he should leave her be and give her some space, to which she responded (so I could hear), "EXACTLY!"
After that, the only thing left to bait Yaqoob with was religion. I suggested that I might become polytheistic because the world looked like it had been designed by committee and because most monotheistic religions ignored a darker side of God, represented by the likes of Kali. This elicited a "Polytheism is cool, man," from Ani. Yaq started singing the Credo, which made me even more shameless - when he sang 'unum Deum', I said, "But I'm not sure..."
But it wasn't the sparkling conversation or Yaqoob baiting that won the evening. That came much earlier, when dinner was served.
As mentioned earlier, Anirudh is a Tamil Brahmin, eliciting images of vegetarianism, cow worship and meditation. Knowing Yaqoob had made a meat dish, I asked Ani if he'd have enough to eat. He said he wasn't a vegetarian; that Hinduism had no rule that you should be. He said that it was the English who had created this image of the 'Hindoo'. That led to a fascinating conversation, and food was temporarily forgotten.
Then Yaqoob served up, and I asked, "What kind of meat is that?"
"Beef," he responded, as he ladled a portion onto Ani's plate.
Rahul and I gasped involuntarily: despite Ani's comment, this was a step too far. Pictures of Ani ending up as a dung fly in the next life despite his Brahmin caste danced in my head. He couldn't possibly eat a sacred cow.
"Ani!" I exclaimed. "You can't eat that!"
Nonchalantly scooping up chawal and curry with his fingers, the Delhi denizen drily declared:
"It's not an Indian cow."
He said that a couple of his neighbours would probably be joining us. I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of a couple of flighty college students intruding on the evening, but the draw of Yaq standing in front of a stove was too strong to resist.
I arrived slightly early for 'Pakistani time' - about 15 minutes after our agreed time of 8pm (no excuse, I'd gotten caught up doing some quick work for the priory). When we got to Yaq's room, there were two other young South Asian men there: Rahul, a fellow Washingtonian of Sindhi descent studying immunology; and Anirudh, a Delhi lad studying law. Rahul, true to his American origin, was extroverted, enthusiastic and sweet. Anirudh was quieter and far drier, with a sharp eye and an equally sharp wit.
Hmmm. *Three* South Asian men, where I'd only expected one. I'm not great with subcontinental men at the best of times. It didn't look good.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The conversation sparkled: mixed Urdu & English, South Asian gestures and references flowed effortlessly. There was amicable competition among regions - as the lone Punjaban, I got to slag off Urdu, which was being vaunted as 'such a beautiful language' - one I consider style and no substance. Punjabi, on the other hand, has grit. It's a cheeky member of the Indo-European family, daring to be tonal and earthy. The sound of Punjabi is unmistakable: as a Punjaban, anytime I hear it, my head swivels so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, and despite being American born, I'm at home.
As a Lahore born NWFPer, Yaq supported me on this one, talking about his Lahori Urdu and how he wanted to speak Punjabi, whilst the other two clucked their tongues and shook their heads knowingly.
Then Rahul made a fatal error. He said, "You know, I really love bhangra music."
"Really?" I replied, attempting to look harmless. "Bhangra music is fantastic, innit - and it's PUNJABI."
Silence. Game, set, match - Irim and the Punjab.
The next topic of conversation, of course, had to be our host and his new girlfriend. As the president of the (uber-Catholic, conservative gay men in denial) Newman Society, Yaq had adopted a certain way of being, and I was a bit worried that she was a beard. That fear was allayed when Rahul and Anirudh gleefully recounted the story of walking into Yaq's unlocked flat, knowing she was there - and Yaq rushing to the door, his jumper somewhat, erm, disarranged (helpfully pointed out by Ani: "It looks like you have put your jumper on in a hurry").
Since I can't keep my mouth shut, time for me to chime in. Yaq kept trying to reach his girlfriend. First her flat, then her mobile, then her friend's flat. I suggested he was being a typically controlling South Asian male and that he should stop. As his searching became more frantic, I jokingly floated the idea that perhaps she wasn't at her friend's at all, but was actually seeing someone else.
Even as he laughed and denied it, you could see Yaq's tension skyrocket and his attempts to reach F become more determined.
Ani looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear. "I think you've pushed him over the edge. That's just the primal fear for South Asian men, isn't it?" (Men everywhere, of course, but South Asian men are in another league when it comes to obsessing about it.)
Sweetheart, I cut my teeth on the South Asian male psyche. Driving them round the bend is like taking candy from a baby.
It turned out F was at her friend's watching "The West Wing". Yaq mentioned to her that I had said he should leave her be and give her some space, to which she responded (so I could hear), "EXACTLY!"
After that, the only thing left to bait Yaqoob with was religion. I suggested that I might become polytheistic because the world looked like it had been designed by committee and because most monotheistic religions ignored a darker side of God, represented by the likes of Kali. This elicited a "Polytheism is cool, man," from Ani. Yaq started singing the Credo, which made me even more shameless - when he sang 'unum Deum', I said, "But I'm not sure..."
But it wasn't the sparkling conversation or Yaqoob baiting that won the evening. That came much earlier, when dinner was served.
As mentioned earlier, Anirudh is a Tamil Brahmin, eliciting images of vegetarianism, cow worship and meditation. Knowing Yaqoob had made a meat dish, I asked Ani if he'd have enough to eat. He said he wasn't a vegetarian; that Hinduism had no rule that you should be. He said that it was the English who had created this image of the 'Hindoo'. That led to a fascinating conversation, and food was temporarily forgotten.
Then Yaqoob served up, and I asked, "What kind of meat is that?"
"Beef," he responded, as he ladled a portion onto Ani's plate.
Rahul and I gasped involuntarily: despite Ani's comment, this was a step too far. Pictures of Ani ending up as a dung fly in the next life despite his Brahmin caste danced in my head. He couldn't possibly eat a sacred cow.
"Ani!" I exclaimed. "You can't eat that!"
Nonchalantly scooping up chawal and curry with his fingers, the Delhi denizen drily declared:
"It's not an Indian cow."
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Snow
I love snow. Living in England, I *miss* snow. Those of my readers who have lived through Minnesota winters or have lived in Canada will probably be putting their heads in their hands right now - sorry, guys.
Why? Not just for the lost school days, both as student and teacher. Nor is it for the sheer beauty of a pristine, blanketed world and the flakes floating down through the sky. In part, it's for the enforced hiatus: as a natural introvert with a strong sense of duty towards others, I love the excuse for solitude under a duvet, with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book (which may stay unread on my lap as I watch the snow fall and just daydream).
Most of all, it's for the silence - by my reckoning, the world is far too restless with too much surface chatter and noise. Snow muffles sound, both physically and by forcing people to stay home. In that stillness, you can hear what's beneath the surface and catch the fleeting sound of creation's heartbeat.
When I lived in Maryland, in the Washington suburbs, we'd almost always be along the snow/rain line, which often meant ice, slush or rain. But some winters we'd hit the jackpot and we'd measure snowfall in feet, with white flakes drifting out of the sky for days, blanketing the world and bringing a preternatural hush to one of the world's busiest cities.
I've not seen snow like that for a dozen years. Yes, we've had the occasional drifting of flakes, maybe even for a few hours, but no real accumulation in this part of the country. This morning...
...this morning was different. My eyes opened in that greyness between darkness and dawn. When I couldn't get back to sleep in 10 minutes, I looked at the clock.
6 am.
I groaned. "IT'S SUNDAY," I thought. "GO BACK TO SLEEP, PLEASE." No dice.
"Maybe you need to go to the loo," an inner voice whispered.
"I've been potty-trained since wide ties were originally in fashion. I think I'd know," grumpy me replied.
"Just GO," came the reply.
This conversation went on for another 5 minutes before I decided to stop wasting time and just go.
I scuttled down the hallway to the loo. As I snapped on the light and blinked sleepily, I idly looked out the frosted glass window into the garden.
White.
"NO," I thought, as it had been sunny and well above freezing the day before. "It's not possible."
Then my no-longer-sleepy eyes flicked upward to the sky - the pinky-grey sky that only ever means one thing. And it ain't rain.
After a loo break that broke the world record for women (I was probably almost as quick as a man!), I tore back down the hall to look through the window in my room.
And there it was - a silent world covered in snow, with flakes drifting down out of the sky at blizzard speed. I watched in wondering silence for a while, then grabbed my phone and took a picture. Then watched some more. Finally, I snuggled under my duvet and closed my eyes with a smile and a prayer of thanks for the beauty, a wish finally granted, for that moment of stillness and connection to creation - which I would have missed without the nudge to nip to the loo, so thanks for that as well.
As I drifted into the twilight world between waking and sleep, I realised what I loved the most about these six-sided ice crystals.
Snow is a prayer.
Why? Not just for the lost school days, both as student and teacher. Nor is it for the sheer beauty of a pristine, blanketed world and the flakes floating down through the sky. In part, it's for the enforced hiatus: as a natural introvert with a strong sense of duty towards others, I love the excuse for solitude under a duvet, with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book (which may stay unread on my lap as I watch the snow fall and just daydream).
Most of all, it's for the silence - by my reckoning, the world is far too restless with too much surface chatter and noise. Snow muffles sound, both physically and by forcing people to stay home. In that stillness, you can hear what's beneath the surface and catch the fleeting sound of creation's heartbeat.
When I lived in Maryland, in the Washington suburbs, we'd almost always be along the snow/rain line, which often meant ice, slush or rain. But some winters we'd hit the jackpot and we'd measure snowfall in feet, with white flakes drifting out of the sky for days, blanketing the world and bringing a preternatural hush to one of the world's busiest cities.
I've not seen snow like that for a dozen years. Yes, we've had the occasional drifting of flakes, maybe even for a few hours, but no real accumulation in this part of the country. This morning...
...this morning was different. My eyes opened in that greyness between darkness and dawn. When I couldn't get back to sleep in 10 minutes, I looked at the clock.
6 am.
I groaned. "IT'S SUNDAY," I thought. "GO BACK TO SLEEP, PLEASE." No dice.
"Maybe you need to go to the loo," an inner voice whispered.
"I've been potty-trained since wide ties were originally in fashion. I think I'd know," grumpy me replied.
"Just GO," came the reply.
This conversation went on for another 5 minutes before I decided to stop wasting time and just go.
I scuttled down the hallway to the loo. As I snapped on the light and blinked sleepily, I idly looked out the frosted glass window into the garden.
White.
"NO," I thought, as it had been sunny and well above freezing the day before. "It's not possible."
Then my no-longer-sleepy eyes flicked upward to the sky - the pinky-grey sky that only ever means one thing. And it ain't rain.
After a loo break that broke the world record for women (I was probably almost as quick as a man!), I tore back down the hall to look through the window in my room.
And there it was - a silent world covered in snow, with flakes drifting down out of the sky at blizzard speed. I watched in wondering silence for a while, then grabbed my phone and took a picture. Then watched some more. Finally, I snuggled under my duvet and closed my eyes with a smile and a prayer of thanks for the beauty, a wish finally granted, for that moment of stillness and connection to creation - which I would have missed without the nudge to nip to the loo, so thanks for that as well.
As I drifted into the twilight world between waking and sleep, I realised what I loved the most about these six-sided ice crystals.
Snow is a prayer.
The ping-pong song
It's Jacquetta's fault. She got me addicted.
The 'ping-pong' song is the nickname of a song by Enrique Iglesias - 'Dimelo' (Tell it to me) in Spanish or 'Do you know' in English. It's called that because of the ping pong ball used for percussion. The video is hysterical, a parody of a video director's thinking process, with (bleeped out or not) Enrique saying to his manager, "Ese cabrón está loco" (cabrón technically means 'male goat', but its slang meaning is much more useful/colourful: "f***er" or "a**hole").
It's catchy, it's cheeky, and to quote Jacquetta: get ready to shake that booty... :)
As usual, I preferred the Spanish version. The Spanish chorus goes:
"DÃmelo, por que estas fuera de mi
Y al mismo tiempo estas muy dentro
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo
DÃmelo sin hablar y hazme sentir todo
Lo que yo ya siento
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo"
Rough translation:
Tell me why you're so far outside (distant, if you like) me,
at the same time you're such a part of me (I was NOT going to use 'inside me'. NOT.)
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Tell me without speaking and make me feel everything
that I already feel
Tell me, tell me, tell me.
Now, the English chorus:
"Do you know what it feels like loving someone that’s in a rush to throw you away.
Do you know what it feels like to be the last one to know the lock on the door has changed."
I'm not one for insisting that translations be exactly the same as the original - it's impossible to fit the words to the music. But is it too much to ask that they at least be as interesting?
Ok, yeah, this is a pop song. It is Enrique. 'Interesting' is relative. But honestly, you'd think that songwriters could do a bit better.
Or maybe not.
The 'ping-pong' song is the nickname of a song by Enrique Iglesias - 'Dimelo' (Tell it to me) in Spanish or 'Do you know' in English. It's called that because of the ping pong ball used for percussion. The video is hysterical, a parody of a video director's thinking process, with (bleeped out or not) Enrique saying to his manager, "Ese cabrón está loco" (cabrón technically means 'male goat', but its slang meaning is much more useful/colourful: "f***er" or "a**hole").
It's catchy, it's cheeky, and to quote Jacquetta: get ready to shake that booty... :)
As usual, I preferred the Spanish version. The Spanish chorus goes:
"DÃmelo, por que estas fuera de mi
Y al mismo tiempo estas muy dentro
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo
DÃmelo sin hablar y hazme sentir todo
Lo que yo ya siento
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo"
Rough translation:
Tell me why you're so far outside (distant, if you like) me,
at the same time you're such a part of me (I was NOT going to use 'inside me'. NOT.)
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Tell me without speaking and make me feel everything
that I already feel
Tell me, tell me, tell me.
Now, the English chorus:
"Do you know what it feels like loving someone that’s in a rush to throw you away.
Do you know what it feels like to be the last one to know the lock on the door has changed."
I'm not one for insisting that translations be exactly the same as the original - it's impossible to fit the words to the music. But is it too much to ask that they at least be as interesting?
Ok, yeah, this is a pop song. It is Enrique. 'Interesting' is relative. But honestly, you'd think that songwriters could do a bit better.
Or maybe not.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
1 April 2008
Marvelous. Simply marvelous. I loved this so much, I must have been Loki in a previous life.
This morning, I put out an email and facebook status with the same theme: my decision to become a member of a religious order.
Here's the email in full:
As he IS a religious and I couldn't read tone over email, I responded cautiously, rather than in my usual cheeky tone.
But the response that is probably going to be untoppable comes from V (not the VB mentioned above):
This morning, I put out an email and facebook status with the same theme: my decision to become a member of a religious order.
Here's the email in full:
Well, it looks like God finally got me.Almost immediately, a response from a favourite cleric: "That's very naughty!"
Last night, after months of thought and prayer, I came to the inescapable conclusion
that the Catholic Church is the One True Church and that maybe I need to bend to
authority a little bit more and just let God do some work.
It's just...TRUE. Maybe it's time I made my life a little easier and went with the flow.
And I've decided that since men seem to be a fruitless area for me - I do seem to pull in
the emotionally unavailable/wounded ones who just won't look at/deal with their own
issues squarely in the face - I'm done. There's just no point in wasting what I have to
offer on men who can't appreciate it, accept it and just love me for who I am - all of it.
You can't have the wonderful bits without the irimtating ones. And I'm so through with
walking on eggshells and the emotional games.
So I'm looking into religious life - why not? It's an easy life - structured, food, shelter,
someone always telling you what to do. I've struggled long enough. Now it's time to
coast.
So it looks like the convent it is. I'll keep you posted.
And if ANY of you believed ANYTHING but "I do seem to pull in ... emotional games"
(minus the "I'm done" - I just love men too dearly to, as Joseph would put it,
"put them down"):
1. Check your calendar and time of day.
2. You haven't seen me in a while or haven't known me
for very long.
To the OPs - hope the chapter is going swimmingly well. VB, welcome home!
Lots of love to all of you on April Fool's Day. Now if you'll excuse me, there's some
iconoclasty for me to be getting on with...
Ixx
As he IS a religious and I couldn't read tone over email, I responded cautiously, rather than in my usual cheeky tone.
But the response that is probably going to be untoppable comes from V (not the VB mentioned above):
Bitch!
That was the funniest and absolutely scariest April Fools that anyone has
ever played on me.
I was about to get some wild horses and a carriage to come and drag you to your senses.
Woooo...at least the giving up men part was believable.
I need go and change now, as I wet myself near the end of that email!
;)
Luvs,
V
PS. If you ever did decide to become a nun, I'd still love you just as fervently. So :P
Looks like we both need Depends (or Attends, depending on where you are), as I wet
myself at the end of her email.
Just one thing, V - you say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing...
Monday, 31 March 2008
Sometimes...
Sometimes an image is just too perfect and too me not to share. From one of my favourite websites - with a bullfighting image to soothe any ruffled feathers 'white boy' may have.Sunday, 30 March 2008
Prayer
I know, I know. There are at least TWO blog entries that are weeks behind. One is almost finished, but the more emotional one is still in the middle of the creative process - and processing in a deeper sense. I'll try to get them out this week.
Meanwhile, please read this article by one of my favourite authors, Rachel Remen, and feel free to start a discussion on it here. It's a wonderfully articulate exposition on how she - and I - feel about prayer. It will explain to those of you with whom I've started this discussion, better than I ever could, why I regard petitionary prayer with such distaste.
And it will also explain why I've never believed that the mandate 'pray without ceasing' is the sole province of those who take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, any more than a holy - and whole(y) - life is.
Meanwhile, please read this article by one of my favourite authors, Rachel Remen, and feel free to start a discussion on it here. It's a wonderfully articulate exposition on how she - and I - feel about prayer. It will explain to those of you with whom I've started this discussion, better than I ever could, why I regard petitionary prayer with such distaste.
And it will also explain why I've never believed that the mandate 'pray without ceasing' is the sole province of those who take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, any more than a holy - and whole(y) - life is.
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Questions arising and conversations overheard on Holy Saturday
No question, when my friend Ruth and I get together, we're theologically very naughty. Not only has she been making faces at me from the choir, so that I giggle in inappropriate places (it was her fault during your sermon, Simon, I swear!), but most priests would also have nightmares about answering questions that arise from our conversations.
Por ejemplo: today, we were at Tenebrae, the morning office for the Triduum. One of the responsories was "Lament like a virgin" (that also came up on Radio 3 whilst we were fighting our way out of Sainsbury's). I turned to Ruth and asked:
"Lament like a virgin - what does that mean? Are they lamenting *because* they are virgins?"
"Probably. You know, you could ask one of the good Catholic boys that and then say, 'Can I help you with that?'"
"Great pickup line."
This conversation happened as we were pushing a trolley around Sainsbury's. Later, in the checkout line, the people around us overheard the following:
Me: Who gets Jesus? (she has the qewlest, tackiest Jesus/Mary shopping bag)
Ruth: *I* get Jesus.
Me: But *I* WANT Jesus.
Ruth: Jesus is mine. I get to have Jesus.
Me: Fine. I didn't want him anyway. Jesus can go to hell.
Ruth, not missing a beat: Well, in fact, he did.
Por ejemplo: today, we were at Tenebrae, the morning office for the Triduum. One of the responsories was "Lament like a virgin" (that also came up on Radio 3 whilst we were fighting our way out of Sainsbury's). I turned to Ruth and asked:
"Lament like a virgin - what does that mean? Are they lamenting *because* they are virgins?"
"Probably. You know, you could ask one of the good Catholic boys that and then say, 'Can I help you with that?'"
"Great pickup line."
This conversation happened as we were pushing a trolley around Sainsbury's. Later, in the checkout line, the people around us overheard the following:
Me: Who gets Jesus? (she has the qewlest, tackiest Jesus/Mary shopping bag)
Ruth: *I* get Jesus.
Me: But *I* WANT Jesus.
Ruth: Jesus is mine. I get to have Jesus.
Me: Fine. I didn't want him anyway. Jesus can go to hell.
Ruth, not missing a beat: Well, in fact, he did.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
A light bulb goes off...
I'm watching that wonderful programme, "CSI" (the original). There's a rodeo story on (I can imagine that 'white boy', who has just discovered the pleasures of CSI, would prefer a bullfight story), and a female bull-owner is discussing the finer points of sperm collection:
"First, you get a teaser - a steer. Bulls go homosexual in captivity."
Suddenly, Oxford and the Catholic priesthood make complete sense.
"First, you get a teaser - a steer. Bulls go homosexual in captivity."
Suddenly, Oxford and the Catholic priesthood make complete sense.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Monday, 3 March 2008
How NOT to excuse yourself from daily Scripture reading and how religious conservatives admit they're gay...
Phew, the title is almost a blog entry in itself!
I love dinner with Martin. We may warm up slowly, but by the main course, we're giggling away - and when the bill arrives, the tables around us have given up any pretence of ignoring our discussion, so I wickedly save the best or most shocking for when my debit card is in the machine.
First, though, the scripture discussion. Martin and I were discussing my lack of faith rather intently, and he said, "You read scripture daily, right?"
I whistled and looked at the ceiling.
Martin laughed and imitated me, saying, "I LOVE this."
"Well, Martin, you have to understand. I WOULD read Scripture daily, but my Bible is holding up a stack of books, and more importantly, my fondue set."
Martin fell out laughing. "It's holding up the unit, is it?"
"Yeah. AND MY FONDUE SET."
"Look, honey, just give me the measurements, and I'll cut a block of wood that are the exact dimensions of your Bible. Then, without anaesthetic, we'll whip it out (by now, *I'M* helpless with laughter) and we'll stick the wooden one in."
I gave in. We continued our animated dinner conversation, with the table next to us paying more and more attention...then whilst I was paying, I pulled out the doozy.
"Oh my God, Martin, I have to share this conversation with you."
"Go on, then."
"This guy was starting off a conversation with that tired old phrase, 'no one is 100% straight or 100% gay.' We know what that usually means, right?"
"So the other guy agrees. Guy #1 asks, 'Have you ever found yourself having occasional sex with other guys?'
"Guy #2: 'Erm, no. What do you mean by 'occasional'?'
Guy #1: Four times this term."
By now, Martin was practically on the floor, the two guys weren't even pretending conversation, and our Indian waitress was so rapt, she nearly forgot to finish the transaction.
I couldn't resist, so I added some commentary:
"Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, you're GAY. God, only a religious conservative could have gay sex every fortnight and be convinced he's straight."
I may be going to Hell, but I'm going Emirates first class - screw the handbasket.
I love dinner with Martin. We may warm up slowly, but by the main course, we're giggling away - and when the bill arrives, the tables around us have given up any pretence of ignoring our discussion, so I wickedly save the best or most shocking for when my debit card is in the machine.
First, though, the scripture discussion. Martin and I were discussing my lack of faith rather intently, and he said, "You read scripture daily, right?"
I whistled and looked at the ceiling.
Martin laughed and imitated me, saying, "I LOVE this."
"Well, Martin, you have to understand. I WOULD read Scripture daily, but my Bible is holding up a stack of books, and more importantly, my fondue set."
Martin fell out laughing. "It's holding up the unit, is it?"
"Yeah. AND MY FONDUE SET."
"Look, honey, just give me the measurements, and I'll cut a block of wood that are the exact dimensions of your Bible. Then, without anaesthetic, we'll whip it out (by now, *I'M* helpless with laughter) and we'll stick the wooden one in."
I gave in. We continued our animated dinner conversation, with the table next to us paying more and more attention...then whilst I was paying, I pulled out the doozy.
"Oh my God, Martin, I have to share this conversation with you."
"Go on, then."
"This guy was starting off a conversation with that tired old phrase, 'no one is 100% straight or 100% gay.' We know what that usually means, right?"
"So the other guy agrees. Guy #1 asks, 'Have you ever found yourself having occasional sex with other guys?'
"Guy #2: 'Erm, no. What do you mean by 'occasional'?'
Guy #1: Four times this term."
By now, Martin was practically on the floor, the two guys weren't even pretending conversation, and our Indian waitress was so rapt, she nearly forgot to finish the transaction.
I couldn't resist, so I added some commentary:
"Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, you're GAY. God, only a religious conservative could have gay sex every fortnight and be convinced he's straight."
I may be going to Hell, but I'm going Emirates first class - screw the handbasket.
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