And then her time in the Coast Guard started. The child in Shannon throve on the requirements and the regulations and the guidelines. By some fluke of the system she spent almost the whole four years stationed in the Seattle area working on the Icebreakers. She loved the work. Loved the isolated beauty of the icebergs they were sent to cleave. But, barring one dramatic rescue in her first year, the whole thing would be a most boring story.
She did fall in love. Because she was 19 and they served together. He was her commanding officer during the great rescue, as she called it. A family was ship wrecked on a small island in the Orcas system, Canadian side of the border. Nothing much to write home about at first glance. But the mother of the family was pregnant
and had gone into labor during the crash. A toddler had been knocked unconscious and the father had broken both of his legs. The coast guard was called in because of the extremely isolated nature of the island and because each member of the stranded family were in such serious and precarious conditions. They saved everyone, even the unborn baby.
The officer she fell in love with was tall and blue eyed and severe. He was young, maybe twenty-five but seemed like an older man. He took her out quite a bit that year. He showed her a good time but he didn’t try to compromise her convictions. And then he was stationed in Hawaii and she never heard from him again. She pined for him for a long time and wrote to her mom about it.
Dion was relieved that her daughter hadn’t been seduced by the unscrupulous military man. He was clearly a part of the uncentered dark that the government represented. “Guard your heart my love. I will pray for the right man for you. You will find love. But guard your heart. It is not your time yet.”
It was such an unsatisfying letter, so filled with weird Coushay Life Center-isms that Shannon tore it up and burned it in an ash tray. And then, for the first time in her life she wrote a letter to Jenny.
Jenny was thrilled by the letter. She showed it to all her friends. She had a new part of this kind and distant husband of hers. Some of her jealousy of Dion was quieted. For a few years she and Terry had tried to have a baby. As it would turn out, he needed to be home more to get her pregnant. Every time she would have been able to conceive he was in Seattle with Dion’s child. With his child. You never own a man fully until you have his child.
She carried the letter with her in her purse for a month before it occurred to her to write Shannon a letter back. That began a friendly correspondence. They exchanged letters every two months or so. Jenny learned about the isolated beauty of the icebergs and the nightlife in Seattle for Coast Guard personnel. Shannon stayed in the service an additional two years. She didn’t tell anyone why. But she couldn’t bear to go back home. Her mom still hadn’t left the seminary. There was no one to go home to.
In their correspondence Shannon learned about Jenny’s home town, a place called Clovis, Oregon. Jenny, Alex, and Sammy went there for two weeks every summer. Jenny’s family had moved to Los Angeles when Jenny started college. But they all liked to go back for vacation. It was hot and golden. Fields of ripe wheat swaying in the breeze. Free range cattle roaming aimlessly and content. A small downtown strip with a Mercantile, a Mexican restaurant, hardware store, feed store, library. It sounded quaint and charming. It seemed like, if Shannon went to Clovis, she could see her dad, her dad’s family. Maybe quell some of her jealousy for Alex and Sammy, the girls she assumed her dad had raised.
Shannon took her honorable discharge and her small savings. She bought a Jetta and drove to Clovis. Drove home.
That year, Alex made the cheerleading nationals and the small family went to Chicago. They went there instead of Clovis. Shannon wrote Jenny from Clovis. To surprise her.
Jenny was surprised. She called. She apologized to Shannon for being in Chicago. But although she apologized, she didn’t know what this girl thought she was doing. There wasn’t work or school in Clovis. Just a bunch of farms and Mexicans and mosquitoes. It never occurred to Jenny to say “Why don’t you come stay with us in L.A.?” Instead she said, “Why don’t you go to your mom in Edmonton?”
Shannon cried herself to sleep that night. Her landlady heard her and began to worry.
It was intense, the orphaned feeling that Shannon had. She didn’t want to be a trucker or a preacher or a teacher or a nurse. And her imagination stalled out there. What could she do? Anything. How did she decide what to do? The Mexican restaurant seemed lively the night she checked it out. It was a really nice place. She applied to wait tables, to make an income while she reassessed her life. To fit in where this stranger, this Jenny woman, had said she would fail. She didn’t hear back from the owner. She figured he felt she lacked the necessary experience. Which, she supposed she did. There wasn’t much about her life with the radio equipment, her time as a Coast Guard Communications Specialist on board an ice breaker that met the needs of a restaurant.
Shannon was still young, and though grieving, optimistic. She thought, a little time, maybe a year here in Clovis. Then Jenny will see that I can do whatever I set my mind to. And I can save some money up and when I leave I can go anywhere I want and do anything I want.
One night she ordered the correspondence course in bartending that she saw on TV. “Perhaps,” she thought “this will impress Mario Gomez enough to take me on in his nice restaurant.” And if it didn’t she thought she could find a bar somewhere near enough to work at. Every town has a place to drink.
Yvonne the landlady saw Shannon not eating; she saw her pining in her heart for family. She saw her staying in the house where she rented a room day after day. And then the package from the correspondence course came. Yvonne had seen those commercials too. That kind of scam doesn’t come cheaply. But all of this asceticism that Yvonne noted in Shannon wasn’t lack of means. It was nerves. And it was fear and it was the honest heartache of a young person who didn’t see anyone who cared about her success or failure.
Only two days after the bartending package arrived, Mario called. And a good thing to, as it had taken Shannon about half a moment to realize she had fallen for a scam. While it hadn’t been all her savings, it had been a few hundred dollars. Not a sum anyone wants to throw away for pleasure. Mario called and he told her what she needed to hear.
“We are really very busy right now and I will need you full time. I can only pay a little but the tips, they are good. You should rather work for me than another restaurant because I would like to train someone to do most everything, maybe not cook right away, but to serve is most important and I will teach you to serve others and to do well in a restaurant.”
His voice was beautiful, deep, resonant, and saying exactly what she wanted to hear. She thanked him and thanked him and was not once late for work.
And that was what Mario first loved about her. She was determined to do good work no matter what circumstances she was under. He saw quickly that she was a very good woman.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Another Great Thesis Idea
So many ideas, so little money for grad school!
I recently read Arabian Nights. It was a pretty standard translation. It was fairly old and was taken from the French translation. According to the introduction (and wikkipedia) the French translation was the first that put these folk tales into a Western language.
I loved it.
The mysteries were mesmerizing. The stories seemed infinitely more interesting than Hans Christian Anderson's faery tales. Perhaps the translation was just that much better than Anderson's translation.
But really I think the stories themselves were what I loved. I would love to find a long version that didn't skip any of the tales. So many of the mysteries went unsolved in the book I read. And yet I think perhaps they go unsolved on purpose.
So fairy tales. Yeah. Where is the thesis in that?
England and France were bowled over, amazed by these stories. The stories raced across the cultural imaginations like wildfire. They could not get enough of them.
Could they be blamed? Evil Genii, handsome princes, beautiful princesses, magic fountains, talking animals, people who became animals, instant justice for wrong doing. And then there was Sinbad. **sigh**. That Sinbad. He had shipwrecks, desert Islands with mysterious trapdoors, inescapable fate, riches immeasurable, giant deadly monsters.
What, did you say Lost? Indeed, no. I said Sinbad. But therein lies the Thesis, no?
It was clear to me after reading Arabian Nights, that the writers of Lost are a literate bunch with their thumbs on what gets people excited about stories.
I would love to get University credit in a Master's program for comparing and contrasting Lost with Arabian Nights as stories and as Cultural Phenomenon. I would like to learn why people still respond enthusiastically to these stories.
Well that's it. I can't get to it this year, so If you are in grad school looking for something cool to study you are welcome to it. Just send me a copy when you are done. I would love to know what you find out.
I recently read Arabian Nights. It was a pretty standard translation. It was fairly old and was taken from the French translation. According to the introduction (and wikkipedia) the French translation was the first that put these folk tales into a Western language.
I loved it.
The mysteries were mesmerizing. The stories seemed infinitely more interesting than Hans Christian Anderson's faery tales. Perhaps the translation was just that much better than Anderson's translation.
But really I think the stories themselves were what I loved. I would love to find a long version that didn't skip any of the tales. So many of the mysteries went unsolved in the book I read. And yet I think perhaps they go unsolved on purpose.
So fairy tales. Yeah. Where is the thesis in that?
England and France were bowled over, amazed by these stories. The stories raced across the cultural imaginations like wildfire. They could not get enough of them.
Could they be blamed? Evil Genii, handsome princes, beautiful princesses, magic fountains, talking animals, people who became animals, instant justice for wrong doing. And then there was Sinbad. **sigh**. That Sinbad. He had shipwrecks, desert Islands with mysterious trapdoors, inescapable fate, riches immeasurable, giant deadly monsters.
What, did you say Lost? Indeed, no. I said Sinbad. But therein lies the Thesis, no?
It was clear to me after reading Arabian Nights, that the writers of Lost are a literate bunch with their thumbs on what gets people excited about stories.
I would love to get University credit in a Master's program for comparing and contrasting Lost with Arabian Nights as stories and as Cultural Phenomenon. I would like to learn why people still respond enthusiastically to these stories.
Well that's it. I can't get to it this year, so If you are in grad school looking for something cool to study you are welcome to it. Just send me a copy when you are done. I would love to know what you find out.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Too lazy to post? Give 'em more Nano!
“Do you like school?”
One said yes, the other said no.
“Was boot camp hard?” she asked
“Oh yes!’
But Dion, she was charming as ever. She helped the time pass more smoothly. She helped people laugh.
“I should say it was hard! You had to cut your hair. I never had a harder job then getting you to sit down and get a haircut.” Her face dimpled, her eyes sparked. Terry laughed, knowingly, though he never participated in any kind of hair cut.
“When you went on Sailor Bill’s Cartoon Schooner, you remember, you were 6? I wanted you to have Shirley Temple curls so bad. First, I tried to do it at home, with my sponge rollers and my hair dryer. You were in your karate phase and with a very deft hand blocked every attempt to put a roller in your hair. So I ran as fast as I could to Aunt Suzanne’s salon. She got you in the chair and started to put the apron around you. You were sure she was going to cut off your hair so you kicked her! You kicked your Aunt Suzanne. I couldn’t believe it.”
And then, because Dion was a very good story teller and knew how to include her audience, she turned to the young girls and said, “Terry’s sister Suzanne is a very good stylist. But she has MS and walks with a cane. I was never more mortified in my life than when I saw my sweet tempered, darling six year old kicking a woman with a cane. The one person on earth who loved Shae-shae as much as mommy and daddy did having her cane kicked right out from under her. That day, I almost became a spanking mom.”
Dion didn’t find a new husband when she divorced Terry. She dated a few men, mostly from bars. As she had thought when she first loved Terry, a man as good as him was hard to find. Dion’s mother, still a force to be reckoned with, advised her that nice men aren’t found in bars.
“Men in bars are after one thing and that is not your security or well being. Men worth having in your life are not found among them. Those men who want the best for you are only found in church. You come with me on Sunday and you will see.” Lucille was ardent and adamant.
“Oh mom, we aren’t church people. What would I do with a church man?”
“You don’t “do” with a church man, Dion. You marry them.”
So Dion went to church with Lucille. At first it was just on the weekends that Terry had
She spent her “free” weekends at conferences and spirit filled retreats. She spent her weeknights having experience quests to find the center of her balance. She was finally able to put aside her loneliness and start to seek her lone path. She forgave Terry for being away at work their whole marriage. She forgave him for letting her divorce him. And she forgave him for finding love again.
And she pitied him because he lacked all spiritual insight or drive for enlightenment. She found love at The Center. Love of the Eternal Spirit of Man, and love of Self. And she found a fine replacement for getting married.
She began to think and eat and breathe her new goal—to become an ordained Minister of the Faith. She was ready to go to
Terry was up for
Terry’s eyes filled with tears as his poised and gracious daughter walked across the stage. She had a gold scarf over her shoulders that only a handful of the graduates were wearing. So it must have meant that she was special.
He found her in the crush after the ceremony and swept her up in a great fatherly hug. “Good job Shae-Shae! Well done!” He kissed her on each cheek and let her go. “We are so proud of you. Jenny sent this.” He handed her a box of chocolates and a card.
“Thanks Daddy,” She grinned from ear to ear. Today
“When do you hit the road?” He asked her. He didn’t love the idea of his daughter joining the Coat Guard. She tried to sell it as a way to save money on college. He told her and told her they had plenty of money for her college. And he was pretty sure he did. But the war with
“I leave for basic training in two weeks.” She could hardly stand still. She wanted to bound around the auditorium with her friends, young and free and alive.
“Well take care. I’ll bring everyone out for your graduation from basic, okay? We’ll all be there.”
It was a funny idea to
And then Terry got back in his rig to drive home. No stopping on the way as the fruit needs of the I5 corridor had already been met that week, on the Northern drive.
Dion and Shannon celebrated at Starbucks with hot expensive decaf bistro drinks and cheesecake from behind the glass display.
“I love you so much kiddo. And I am so proud of you. I can only imagine the amazing things you will experience. The travel and the adventure. You will remember to write to me?” Dion drank slowly from her coffee, enjoying the experience of being with her newly made adult daughter. There was so much to tell a young person on a night like tonight.
“Oh of course, mom. Of course. I’ll write. You think I won’t write just because, what? Because I’ll learn to shoot a gun?”
“I wish you wouldn’t honey--work with arms. I really do. I understand the need to follow your own path. And I pray that you will find one eventually that leads to peace. There is just so much aggression and darkness in the military machine. You write me if the darkness is too deep for you, please.” She would never stop fighting against the darkness on behalf of her daughter. It was the job of a mother.
“Mom. It’s the Coast Guard. I’ll be rescuing boaters. I’ll be…a part of the light. Don’t worry.”
“Well. I’m just saying. I know I could get you a position at the Coushay Seminary in
“Okay mom. Really. Seminary is your stuff. Just let me do my stuff.” The coffee tasted burnt and the cheesecake was cloying in the back of her throat.
The next morning
She kissed her daughter on top of her head. “I love you so much!” She cried out.
“Oh mom.”
“I love you. Don’t forget to write.” Dion dropped the keys to the house on the table. “Wish me luck?”
“Luck?”
“Ahh well, I suppose even the most centered believer could use a little luck.”
“Well then, luck to you, mom. I love you.” Sat down her coffee mug and got up. She wrapped her arms tight around her mom. Four years wasn’t that long. She’d be out of the Coast guard in four years and have her mommy back.
Dion gave her a big motherly smooch on the cheek. Then she loaded her bags and herself into the Rabbit, top down. She blew a kiss to her darling and drove off North to her future.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
A Little Smackeral of Something
Why WriMo if no one will ever ReaMo?
Here is the first installment of The Restaurante, a National Novel Writing Month novel by Traci Hilton. It's the first public airing, so to speak. Content unedited though typos and general errors have been given a little attention. Enjoy.
Here is the first installment of The Restaurante, a National Novel Writing Month novel by Traci Hilton. It's the first public airing, so to speak. Content unedited though typos and general errors have been given a little attention. Enjoy.
Mario and Shannon had been friends a long time now. Most everyone they knew figured they were already lovers. But that wasn’t Mario’s style. And
In their town Mario was considered an expert. He was a successful business man. He had been a young entrepreneur. He went away to college and yet he returned to
He offered his insights into business, cooking, managing, building, and gardening to anyone who asked. And despite the failed marriage of his youth and his failure to win
When Mario first heard that the big eyed ingénue of an ex-coastguardsman had sent away the last of her last paycheck for a correspondence course in bartending and drink mixing he was dumbfounded. She seemed to be the last person on Earth to fall for an old time scam like that. Without deciding to, he took her wholeheartedly into his life and his business.
He told
These days
After her first month waiting tables and mixing drinks for Mario she started to talk a little about the things she might like to do. And Mario would offer back his sage and sought after advice. She started to look forward eagerly, for the conversations and the guidance, and the opportunity to be unabashedly self-centered.
After the second month Mario found his advice started to lean more and more towards things that would keep those big eyes and small hands in
After work she spent many evenings at Mario’s home above the Restaurante eating amazing tamales.
“
“I suppose I’m stuck here forever since I can’t get these fine tamales anywhere else. Wait a second, unless of course I find your wife and get the recipe from her.” Our
She picked up her purse and put a kiss on top of his head, “And far be if for me to get between a mamma and her boy.”
She walked out the back and down the stairs to her car. Mario could feel the kiss on top of his head. Why did she do that to him? After all this time she made him crazy—almost like she was doing it on purpose.
It was the kind of thing she did. Keep things nice. Put her money to good use. Her lawn was tidy but there were no family heirloom plants in the flower garden. No deceased pets out back under flowering trees. Just the careful upkeep you give a place when you are fond of it and want to sell for a profit some day.
It was, of course, quite a contrast to Mario’s apartment above Mario’s. His home had those lingering scents of frijoles and enchilada sauce. It had the décor—the flotsam and jetsam--of a man’s home after the wife left in a hurry. The carpets were still mauve and the sofa was still the rosy floral pattern. Though he hadn’t changed anything, time had passed. His bookshelves had gathered dust and screwdrivers and receipts. The coffee table had earned an impressive collection of water rings. And though she never asked,
The friendly divorce terms allowed him two weekends a month with his daughter and as much participation in her life as he could fit in. So, as before the divorce, he came home to
Then he remarried. A lovely woman called Jenny in
At her graduation from basic training, when she was 18, Terry, Jenny, the girls Alex and Sammy, now in junior high, and Dion all attended the ceremony. Afterward they celebrated at a pizza parlor.
Dion had not found a new husband. But she had found religion and so was “at peace” and able to celebrate with her husband’s new family. The girls, Alex and Sammy, were giddy with excitement because they on vacation with their stepfather, a man they also saw as a friendly Santa Claus, almost too good to be true and mostly living in their imaginations.
'Zine one of these lately
I was reading Anne's House of Dreams last night and feeling sentimental. I was sad that Captain Jim died and I was thinking fondly of adolescence and reading the Anne books for the first time.
My train of thought chugged onward to that precarious stage of late teens. The moments left to prove that you were Something Special were ticking away. Come an evening in May, with everyone in matching red robes, the rest of what you could accomplish in life might show you were bright, but you would never again get to be a prodigy.
My set of friends longed greatly for prodigy. The forces in motion in those days gave the wordy types of us a brand new outlet. A dream of recognition. There was a new big thing on the horizon that would separate the average from the special. It was the 'zine.
There was a new place in town called Kinko's and everyone had a personal computer. A teenager could type anything she wanted and cut and past it into a 5x7 booklet. The truly special could add their own pen and ink illustrations. Then they could drive to Kinkos and make copies. The average price for distribution was $2. With bated breath we hoped that our 'zines would stand out in the crowd. That local independent booksellers would keep them on their counters. Or--could we dare hope--sell them from the rack with with other magazines.
Armed with a personal computer less powerful than the phone in my purse right now, a large and loud photocopier that lived in the basement of my parents house, a pair of scissors and scotch tape I was going to join the fray. My friend and I met in the room lovingly called "the dungeon" to hash out our own 'zine. I wanted to call it Zilpah. A title that would show the world right off who we were. Young, clever, well read Christian grrrls.
My friend wanted to call it Purple.
Nothing wrong with Purple. But it made apparent the differences in out literary ambitions. My 'zining was over before it began
The days when I could have been a prodigy slipped away. I mourned my lost potential as any self-centered teenager should.
My twenties are not much more than a shadow now. My husband has been classifying me with the "in their 30's crowd" for two years now. (Guess how old he is?)
I was just wondering...is there a steam-punk 'zine movement out there, fueled by sentimental 30-somethings and with their scissors and scotch tape?
My train of thought chugged onward to that precarious stage of late teens. The moments left to prove that you were Something Special were ticking away. Come an evening in May, with everyone in matching red robes, the rest of what you could accomplish in life might show you were bright, but you would never again get to be a prodigy.
My set of friends longed greatly for prodigy. The forces in motion in those days gave the wordy types of us a brand new outlet. A dream of recognition. There was a new big thing on the horizon that would separate the average from the special. It was the 'zine.
There was a new place in town called Kinko's and everyone had a personal computer. A teenager could type anything she wanted and cut and past it into a 5x7 booklet. The truly special could add their own pen and ink illustrations. Then they could drive to Kinkos and make copies. The average price for distribution was $2. With bated breath we hoped that our 'zines would stand out in the crowd. That local independent booksellers would keep them on their counters. Or--could we dare hope--sell them from the rack with with other magazines.
Armed with a personal computer less powerful than the phone in my purse right now, a large and loud photocopier that lived in the basement of my parents house, a pair of scissors and scotch tape I was going to join the fray. My friend and I met in the room lovingly called "the dungeon" to hash out our own 'zine. I wanted to call it Zilpah. A title that would show the world right off who we were. Young, clever, well read Christian grrrls.
My friend wanted to call it Purple.
Nothing wrong with Purple. But it made apparent the differences in out literary ambitions. My 'zining was over before it began
The days when I could have been a prodigy slipped away. I mourned my lost potential as any self-centered teenager should.
My twenties are not much more than a shadow now. My husband has been classifying me with the "in their 30's crowd" for two years now. (Guess how old he is?)
I was just wondering...is there a steam-punk 'zine movement out there, fueled by sentimental 30-somethings and with their scissors and scotch tape?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
To Buy or Not to Buy
I do not believe that God gives wealth, health, happiness or prosperity to people because they follow him. I believe that all good things come from the Father of Lights. And I believe that sometimes those good things will be wealth, health, happiness or prosperity. But not always. And they are not the exclusive property of people who praise God. Our Pastor's email update spoke a little bit about this. But what makes me think about it right now is my impulsive decision to get a minivan.
I keep comparing this new purchase (and the Dave Ramsey disapproval that comes with it) to our decision as a church body to build a new building.
Our church leadership and congregation made the decision to build a new church for many of the same reasons we got a new car this week. The other one is old. (The church is ten times older than the car, or course.) The oldness means there are aggravating maintenance issues. Some of those issues are a real concern when you think about the building/car functioning for the next number of years. Both were too small for our projected family growth. Both keep falling apart around our ears. The church has plumbing, electrical, and design troubles. The car had electrical problems (fixed those) and design flaws. We can't open the drivers side door of the car and it has already been "fixed" twice.
As a church we decided that God would and could provide our small, lower middle class congregation with the 2+ million dollars it would cost to build a new building. Two million dollars. And it won't even have a finished kitchen or Sunday School classes. We all recognize that that much money is small potatoes to God, even the the most frequent prayer request shared is un and underemployment.
I am on board with the building because...I have to be part of the team. I am scared of the project and question the wisdom of it. It seems to me that a God that can give us lots of money can also make our hundred year old building last a thousand years. It seems to me just as easy to do the one as the other. And it seems a very American thing to expect the money answer and not the preservation answer. It sometimes seems like we are building the new building because the old one is just plain aggravation.
And speaking of aggravating, that was the old car. I was pretty impulsive, purchasing the minivan. I did it because I had had it with accepting God's provision of my little car. It is a perfectly acceptable form of transportation for my family as my family exists right now. It runs just fine. I did not have cash to buy the car.
I am not foling myself and thinking "God gave me a good buy so I had to do it!" I don't think, "God will always provide enough for us to make the payments on this car 'till it is paid off." I do not think that a new car will make our lives better. It does make it less aggravating though.
I do think, "there will be things that we can't do now, because we have a car payment." One of those things might be pre-school for my daughter next year. Another is certainly the building fund. As a part of accepting that the church was going through with the project I had committed in may heart to give generously to it. I want to see it all-the-way finished. Are payment are comfortable, if not small. But they do cut into our ability to give.
I'm just processing the process I started. I am keenly aware of the irony that exists with my attitude about the building project and my jumping into a new (to me) car. I have five more days to make up my mind about it. But I am sure we will keep it. I am not sure that it is the wisest thing to do. I am sure it is the American thing to do. Wise and American don't always go hand in hand. Wise and Me don't always go hand in hand either.
I keep comparing this new purchase (and the Dave Ramsey disapproval that comes with it) to our decision as a church body to build a new building.
Our church leadership and congregation made the decision to build a new church for many of the same reasons we got a new car this week. The other one is old. (The church is ten times older than the car, or course.) The oldness means there are aggravating maintenance issues. Some of those issues are a real concern when you think about the building/car functioning for the next number of years. Both were too small for our projected family growth. Both keep falling apart around our ears. The church has plumbing, electrical, and design troubles. The car had electrical problems (fixed those) and design flaws. We can't open the drivers side door of the car and it has already been "fixed" twice.
As a church we decided that God would and could provide our small, lower middle class congregation with the 2+ million dollars it would cost to build a new building. Two million dollars. And it won't even have a finished kitchen or Sunday School classes. We all recognize that that much money is small potatoes to God, even the the most frequent prayer request shared is un and underemployment.
I am on board with the building because...I have to be part of the team. I am scared of the project and question the wisdom of it. It seems to me that a God that can give us lots of money can also make our hundred year old building last a thousand years. It seems to me just as easy to do the one as the other. And it seems a very American thing to expect the money answer and not the preservation answer. It sometimes seems like we are building the new building because the old one is just plain aggravation.
And speaking of aggravating, that was the old car. I was pretty impulsive, purchasing the minivan. I did it because I had had it with accepting God's provision of my little car. It is a perfectly acceptable form of transportation for my family as my family exists right now. It runs just fine. I did not have cash to buy the car.
I am not foling myself and thinking "God gave me a good buy so I had to do it!" I don't think, "God will always provide enough for us to make the payments on this car 'till it is paid off." I do not think that a new car will make our lives better. It does make it less aggravating though.
I do think, "there will be things that we can't do now, because we have a car payment." One of those things might be pre-school for my daughter next year. Another is certainly the building fund. As a part of accepting that the church was going through with the project I had committed in may heart to give generously to it. I want to see it all-the-way finished. Are payment are comfortable, if not small. But they do cut into our ability to give.
I'm just processing the process I started. I am keenly aware of the irony that exists with my attitude about the building project and my jumping into a new (to me) car. I have five more days to make up my mind about it. But I am sure we will keep it. I am not sure that it is the wisest thing to do. I am sure it is the American thing to do. Wise and American don't always go hand in hand. Wise and Me don't always go hand in hand either.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Me Oh, My Oh
I get all sorts of Me time all for myself. I get to sleep in (a natural consequence from my girls fitful sleep.) I get to read as much fiction as I want. I get to write as much fiction as I want. Or non fiction. Or blog. I get to spend hours online (it would be less time online but I suffer from dial up internet.) My husband is supportive of anything I attempt and believes that I can do anything I want. And he wants me to do anything I want. I get girls nights out, babysitters during Bible Study, and I have playdates coming out of me ears, and more playdates just waiting for me to initiate. According to woman's magazine culture I have the perfect recipe for a fulfilled and satisfying life. Me time. And lots of it.
Yet I am not satisfied. I am very frequently exhausted, worn down, stressed, disappointed in myself, discouraged in my parenting and lacking a sense of meaning in life. I think the paragraph above makes the reason for my troubles clear. If I am stressed and exhausted and all of those other bad descriptors it must be because I have too much of something. I need to read through the above paragraph and highlight whatever it is that occurs to often.
I get all sorts of Me time all for myself. I get to sleep in (very important since the girls don't sleep through the night.) I get to read as much fiction as I want. I get to write as much fiction as I want. Or I can write non fiction. Or I can blog. I get to spend hours online (it would be less time online but I suffer from dial up internet.) My husband is supportive of anything I attempt and believes that I can do anything I want. And he wants me to do anything I want. I get girls nights out, babysitters during Bible Study, and I have playdates coming out of me ears, and more playdates just waiting for me to initiate. According to woman's magazine cutlure I have the perfect recipe for a fullfilled and satisfying life. Me time. And lots of it.
This paragraph seems to center all around on person. Myself. I am leading a very self-centered life. Self-centered and not so satisfying. I am doing things that are fun but not productive, and enjoyable but not refreshing.
All by myself it would be impossible to address and change my whole self-centered life style at once. Fortunately, I don't have to do things all by myself. I have the Holy Spirit to guide and help. Praise the Lord because I need the help.
I was reading a book about mommy stress that brought this all up for me. One small section was about getting me-time in a busy schedule. I have the least busy schedule I know of and the most mommy time I can imagine. So I gave thought to the kind of mommy-time the author was suggesting. That was when I saw where I had gone wrong.
The way to heal my personal case of selfishness-induced-dismay is relatively easy. Especially with the writer's strike on. (I pray the Lord will give me strength to continue once Lost returns on air.)
I sleep in to compensate for a broken night's sleep. That means I get up when Daniel leaves for work, eat breakfast at the computer, shower while the girls watch Sesame Street and get a pretty late start on the day. Because I am cranky and worn down I don't take anytime with God in all of that.
Even I can see that that is not the healthy way to deal with a stress I have come to expect nightly. I need to, and did for the last two nights, go to bed earlier. (That's why the writer's strike helps. Who wants to watch TV when nothing is on?)
Can you guess what comes next? I thought so. To bed early means waking up earlier as well. And waking up earlier means taking time with God, reading the Bible, contemplating it's meaning and praying before I start anything else.
Most any fundy would tell you this is the only way to start the day. As a confirmed non-morning person I have always denied that this was necessary. But it is.
I need to and am convinced that I can, start my day off focusing on God instead of myself. We will see what this does to my ability to cope with a three year old, a one year old and a constantly getting messy house. I think it will make all the difference.
The author of the book I was reading would call getting to bed early and reading the Bible necessary me-time for a mommy. I think, in my life, it is important to make a differentiation. Getting to bed early is healthy me-time, yes. Making time for the Bible and prayer is God time. And I need it.
Yet I am not satisfied. I am very frequently exhausted, worn down, stressed, disappointed in myself, discouraged in my parenting and lacking a sense of meaning in life. I think the paragraph above makes the reason for my troubles clear. If I am stressed and exhausted and all of those other bad descriptors it must be because I have too much of something. I need to read through the above paragraph and highlight whatever it is that occurs to often.
I get all sorts of Me time all for myself. I get to sleep in (very important since the girls don't sleep through the night.) I get to read as much fiction as I want. I get to write as much fiction as I want. Or I can write non fiction. Or I can blog. I get to spend hours online (it would be less time online but I suffer from dial up internet.) My husband is supportive of anything I attempt and believes that I can do anything I want. And he wants me to do anything I want. I get girls nights out, babysitters during Bible Study, and I have playdates coming out of me ears, and more playdates just waiting for me to initiate. According to woman's magazine cutlure I have the perfect recipe for a fullfilled and satisfying life. Me time. And lots of it.
This paragraph seems to center all around on person. Myself. I am leading a very self-centered life. Self-centered and not so satisfying. I am doing things that are fun but not productive, and enjoyable but not refreshing.
All by myself it would be impossible to address and change my whole self-centered life style at once. Fortunately, I don't have to do things all by myself. I have the Holy Spirit to guide and help. Praise the Lord because I need the help.
I was reading a book about mommy stress that brought this all up for me. One small section was about getting me-time in a busy schedule. I have the least busy schedule I know of and the most mommy time I can imagine. So I gave thought to the kind of mommy-time the author was suggesting. That was when I saw where I had gone wrong.
The way to heal my personal case of selfishness-induced-dismay is relatively easy. Especially with the writer's strike on. (I pray the Lord will give me strength to continue once Lost returns on air.)
I sleep in to compensate for a broken night's sleep. That means I get up when Daniel leaves for work, eat breakfast at the computer, shower while the girls watch Sesame Street and get a pretty late start on the day. Because I am cranky and worn down I don't take anytime with God in all of that.
Even I can see that that is not the healthy way to deal with a stress I have come to expect nightly. I need to, and did for the last two nights, go to bed earlier. (That's why the writer's strike helps. Who wants to watch TV when nothing is on?)
Can you guess what comes next? I thought so. To bed early means waking up earlier as well. And waking up earlier means taking time with God, reading the Bible, contemplating it's meaning and praying before I start anything else.
Most any fundy would tell you this is the only way to start the day. As a confirmed non-morning person I have always denied that this was necessary. But it is.
I need to and am convinced that I can, start my day off focusing on God instead of myself. We will see what this does to my ability to cope with a three year old, a one year old and a constantly getting messy house. I think it will make all the difference.
The author of the book I was reading would call getting to bed early and reading the Bible necessary me-time for a mommy. I think, in my life, it is important to make a differentiation. Getting to bed early is healthy me-time, yes. Making time for the Bible and prayer is God time. And I need it.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Chapter 21
Today at Life Group we are discussing Chapter 21. Oh yes. We finally made it all the way here. Everyone is nervous and edgy, even the group leader. One couple would have been thrilled to elucidate us on the topic but they have a new baby and are sleep deprived. They are the only ones who were looking forward to it and they may not make it.
Early on I said I would just stay home for Chapter 21. For a while I thought maybe I'd be up to discussing it. But no, I can always trust my first reaction. There is no way I could possibly participate in a discussion of Chapter 21. There are just some things nice girls don't do.
I knew I wouldn't have to twist his arm, as Daniel no more wants to sit there with all of our friends and talk about Chapter 21 either. That's none of their business. And frankly, I don't need to think about their Chapter 21 either.
The church Daniel's boss goes to got into a lot of heat in the neighborhood and the media for their sermon series on...well, Chapter 21. I don't think the sermons were considered inappropriate. But nobody liked the big sign on the main road near the High School that said umm...Chapter 21 in five foot letters. And can I blame them? No. I wouldn't want to drive my kids to school past a big fat Chapter 21 sign either.
Some people think my aversion to Chapter 21 is a kind of hypocrisy. To them I can only say this: All of my jokes and such on the topic are firmly rooted in an adolescent level of immaturity brought on by discomfort at the topic. So there.
Oh, jeesh. I just realized that I am leaving you a little in the dark. The Chapter 21 I am referring to is in Covenant Marriage by Gary Chapman (not the Gary Chapman that Amy Grant abandoned.) It's a reasonably good book if you over look things like Chapter 21 and the wooden dialogue he uses in his example situations.
We will be boycotting group tonight. I plan to spend the newly freed time making Christmas tree ornaments for my preschool Sunday Schoolers. Daniel, frankly, may be hoping to get some Chapter 21. And that's fine. As long as I don't have to tell anyone about it afterwards.
Early on I said I would just stay home for Chapter 21. For a while I thought maybe I'd be up to discussing it. But no, I can always trust my first reaction. There is no way I could possibly participate in a discussion of Chapter 21. There are just some things nice girls don't do.
I knew I wouldn't have to twist his arm, as Daniel no more wants to sit there with all of our friends and talk about Chapter 21 either. That's none of their business. And frankly, I don't need to think about their Chapter 21 either.
The church Daniel's boss goes to got into a lot of heat in the neighborhood and the media for their sermon series on...well, Chapter 21. I don't think the sermons were considered inappropriate. But nobody liked the big sign on the main road near the High School that said umm...Chapter 21 in five foot letters. And can I blame them? No. I wouldn't want to drive my kids to school past a big fat Chapter 21 sign either.
Some people think my aversion to Chapter 21 is a kind of hypocrisy. To them I can only say this: All of my jokes and such on the topic are firmly rooted in an adolescent level of immaturity brought on by discomfort at the topic. So there.
Oh, jeesh. I just realized that I am leaving you a little in the dark. The Chapter 21 I am referring to is in Covenant Marriage by Gary Chapman (not the Gary Chapman that Amy Grant abandoned.) It's a reasonably good book if you over look things like Chapter 21 and the wooden dialogue he uses in his example situations.
We will be boycotting group tonight. I plan to spend the newly freed time making Christmas tree ornaments for my preschool Sunday Schoolers. Daniel, frankly, may be hoping to get some Chapter 21. And that's fine. As long as I don't have to tell anyone about it afterwards.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Woe is Me
For most of the last few years (how is that for precise?) Daniel, who is both my husband and the one who came up with the name fundynutter, has been teaching at the community college. He only teaches during the fall. If, as a teacher, you were to pick one quarter to teach, the fall is the obvious choice. You set the tone for the year. You don't have to be aware of what the last teacher taught. For his program he doesn't have to coordinate the first half of the huge two-quarter student project. Or the second half of it either.
But for the wife of the teacher it is not the best quarter to teach. Prep begins in August and fills up September, the two prettiest months in our region. Classes take up one of his days off every week all the way up to Christmas.
I'm not all together thrilled with any three month period where Daniel works six day work weeks. But I am especially not in love with it during the few weeks before Christmas.
The reasons are probably obvious. I'd like to share them anyway. Sometimes a girl needs to share.
1. It gives me only the evenings after a long day with the kids, in the dark and rain, after feeding them, cleaning up the mes and putting them to bed, to go out and shop for Christmas gifts for them.
2. I have to take the kids all by myself to all of the family and church holiday festivities. This has been going on long enough now I wonder if my cousins might be worried about our marriage.
3. It gives us Sunday afternoon, after church, lunch, and the baby's nap (so around three o' clock in the afternoon) to do any kind of family holiday fun. And of course about three o' clock is when Miss Three Years Old gets tired and cranky.
4. All of the above and the pathos of most Christmas music work together to make me lonely.
It feels good to get that off of my chest.
So good, in fact, to give my complaints a permanent place in the universe, that I feel like counting my blessings.
1. A husband who has work.
2. Two healthy kids I can buy gifts for.
3. A family that gets together for holiday events every year.
4. A church that teaches the Truth.
5. A bunch of girlfriends at said church who understand and listen and keep me company when I am lonely.
6. A bunch of on-line girlfriends who understand and listen and keep me company when I am lonely.
7. A couple of girls who cross over from online girlfriends to friends in my home.
8. A Savior who descended from unimaginable heights to the lowliest of lows, becoming a person so that I could become his friend. So that I wouldn't have to live eternally separated from Him. That's a love story more romantic than meeting Daniel.
I feel this lonely when I only get one day a week with Daniel--and all the hardest thing I ever did for him was deliver his babies. It may be beyond trite, but it brings to mind how lonely my Savior who gave up glory in heaven to live in the hot and terrible desert, die in shame on a cross, and then raise again to be rejected over and over by his creation, must feel when I only give him one day a week.
So this post is sort of rambling and will probably be edited more than once. I am thinking of ending it with some scripture and thoughts on what it means to have the Holy Spirit here as our comforter. But I need to go back and read and think on it some. I don't want to talk about it lightly, as I think God was trying to teach me something as I wrote this post.
But for the wife of the teacher it is not the best quarter to teach. Prep begins in August and fills up September, the two prettiest months in our region. Classes take up one of his days off every week all the way up to Christmas.
I'm not all together thrilled with any three month period where Daniel works six day work weeks. But I am especially not in love with it during the few weeks before Christmas.
The reasons are probably obvious. I'd like to share them anyway. Sometimes a girl needs to share.
1. It gives me only the evenings after a long day with the kids, in the dark and rain, after feeding them, cleaning up the mes and putting them to bed, to go out and shop for Christmas gifts for them.
2. I have to take the kids all by myself to all of the family and church holiday festivities. This has been going on long enough now I wonder if my cousins might be worried about our marriage.
3. It gives us Sunday afternoon, after church, lunch, and the baby's nap (so around three o' clock in the afternoon) to do any kind of family holiday fun. And of course about three o' clock is when Miss Three Years Old gets tired and cranky.
4. All of the above and the pathos of most Christmas music work together to make me lonely.
It feels good to get that off of my chest.
So good, in fact, to give my complaints a permanent place in the universe, that I feel like counting my blessings.
1. A husband who has work.
2. Two healthy kids I can buy gifts for.
3. A family that gets together for holiday events every year.
4. A church that teaches the Truth.
5. A bunch of girlfriends at said church who understand and listen and keep me company when I am lonely.
6. A bunch of on-line girlfriends who understand and listen and keep me company when I am lonely.
7. A couple of girls who cross over from online girlfriends to friends in my home.
8. A Savior who descended from unimaginable heights to the lowliest of lows, becoming a person so that I could become his friend. So that I wouldn't have to live eternally separated from Him. That's a love story more romantic than meeting Daniel.
I feel this lonely when I only get one day a week with Daniel--and all the hardest thing I ever did for him was deliver his babies. It may be beyond trite, but it brings to mind how lonely my Savior who gave up glory in heaven to live in the hot and terrible desert, die in shame on a cross, and then raise again to be rejected over and over by his creation, must feel when I only give him one day a week.
So this post is sort of rambling and will probably be edited more than once. I am thinking of ending it with some scripture and thoughts on what it means to have the Holy Spirit here as our comforter. But I need to go back and read and think on it some. I don't want to talk about it lightly, as I think God was trying to teach me something as I wrote this post.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
I was tagged some time ago...
And now must fulfill my obligation by sharing 7 unusual facts about myself.
1. I've slept in more churches that I could count on my fingers. Churches in two states and four countries. I am a church sleep-over fool.
2. I have a love hate relationship with O. Henry. I love him because of his inventive use of language and his pursuing literature outside of the academic world. I hate him for his racism and his use of racial stereotypes to further plot. And yet, can he be blamed? It was the world he lived in. And yet, the world as a whole was wrong, so we should blame all of them. Which I do. And yet I love it. The twists, the predictable unpredictability. The lovable rogues.
3. Robin Hood is my favorite Disney cartoon. And yet if I watch it one more time I might go brain dead, as it is currently one of my 20 month olds favorites also.
4. I've been wearing corrective orthotics in my shoes since I was 12 and find shoe shopping to be the most discouraging and pointless activities in the world. And yet, I have to do it kind of frequently as worn out shoes lead to lots of aches and pains.
5. Chuck reminds me of my husband except that his personal computer brain is almost exclusively for song lyrics and he has, umm...minimal computer skills. But he looks really cute in a white button down shirt, with a tie. Wait, that's kind of about my husband. But let's just say it's about me because of the comparison between the two being in my head.
6. I have a terrible time remembering if you eat dessert or desert.
7. I have an accordion folder full of unproduced and unpublished one act plays that I think are brilliant.
And now who to tag? I think everyone I know has been tagged. Except for Ruth Alvarez, so Ruth, I tag you. And I think I'll tell you in person this afternoon since I've never been to your blog.
Blisses,
Traci
1. I've slept in more churches that I could count on my fingers. Churches in two states and four countries. I am a church sleep-over fool.
2. I have a love hate relationship with O. Henry. I love him because of his inventive use of language and his pursuing literature outside of the academic world. I hate him for his racism and his use of racial stereotypes to further plot. And yet, can he be blamed? It was the world he lived in. And yet, the world as a whole was wrong, so we should blame all of them. Which I do. And yet I love it. The twists, the predictable unpredictability. The lovable rogues.
3. Robin Hood is my favorite Disney cartoon. And yet if I watch it one more time I might go brain dead, as it is currently one of my 20 month olds favorites also.
4. I've been wearing corrective orthotics in my shoes since I was 12 and find shoe shopping to be the most discouraging and pointless activities in the world. And yet, I have to do it kind of frequently as worn out shoes lead to lots of aches and pains.
5. Chuck reminds me of my husband except that his personal computer brain is almost exclusively for song lyrics and he has, umm...minimal computer skills. But he looks really cute in a white button down shirt, with a tie. Wait, that's kind of about my husband. But let's just say it's about me because of the comparison between the two being in my head.
6. I have a terrible time remembering if you eat dessert or desert.
7. I have an accordion folder full of unproduced and unpublished one act plays that I think are brilliant.
And now who to tag? I think everyone I know has been tagged. Except for Ruth Alvarez, so Ruth, I tag you. And I think I'll tell you in person this afternoon since I've never been to your blog.
Blisses,
Traci
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Back in the Saddle Again
I'm back on the blogspot after a fall of some adventures. The most fun and adventurous would have to be Nanowrimo. Oh yes. The Nano. I'm a wrimo baby. I am just itching for Nanoedmo and Script Frenzy. Someday when I remember my password I will go get my winner widget and post it on here.
I had the most fun in years, I think, trying to write a novel in a month. I've always known that I work well riding my train of thought (because I don't want to try to spell stream of consc. right now.) These last five years or so I clogged up the arteries of my writing though by plotting, planning, and brainstorming because that is what all the books on writing tell you to do. As writing is a craft that can be learned and improved I wanted to try to learn and improve. This November was freeing and cleansing to put a pen to paper and just let it come out. It was a lot like reading a book; I couldn't wait to sit down and see what was going to happen next.
But that all said and done...well, word count met if not all the way done...I owe anyone who stumbles here a little fundamentalist weirdness, wouldn't you say?
So here's a tid bit. I believe in fire breathing dragons. Oh yes. I think most likely Saint George really slayed one. Oh, well, yeah, I may be going out on a limb on that one as I haven't read anything about said Saint. But it is possible as I believe that they existed and existed at the same time as man.
We also believe that The Lost World is an accurate depiction of life hidden deep in the unexplored jungles of South American. Without the half evolved people, of course.
We also consider things like the half truths found in The Lost World to be God's way of showing that he is in complete control, even of people who do not want to recognize it. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that. Or about the Dragons. But I think really real fundies would agree with me.
I was tagged a while back and didn't play along. Not because I'm so so cooler than that. I just forgot. Because I wasn't blogging.
I'm going to leave you hanging on that cliff so you will tune in tomorrow (or the day after) to read the answers to my tagged thingy-do.
God Bless you all this Christmas in the very Fundy born-again sense. I wish you all salvation this year!
I had the most fun in years, I think, trying to write a novel in a month. I've always known that I work well riding my train of thought (because I don't want to try to spell stream of consc. right now.) These last five years or so I clogged up the arteries of my writing though by plotting, planning, and brainstorming because that is what all the books on writing tell you to do. As writing is a craft that can be learned and improved I wanted to try to learn and improve. This November was freeing and cleansing to put a pen to paper and just let it come out. It was a lot like reading a book; I couldn't wait to sit down and see what was going to happen next.
But that all said and done...well, word count met if not all the way done...I owe anyone who stumbles here a little fundamentalist weirdness, wouldn't you say?
So here's a tid bit. I believe in fire breathing dragons. Oh yes. I think most likely Saint George really slayed one. Oh, well, yeah, I may be going out on a limb on that one as I haven't read anything about said Saint. But it is possible as I believe that they existed and existed at the same time as man.
We also believe that The Lost World is an accurate depiction of life hidden deep in the unexplored jungles of South American. Without the half evolved people, of course.
We also consider things like the half truths found in The Lost World to be God's way of showing that he is in complete control, even of people who do not want to recognize it. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that. Or about the Dragons. But I think really real fundies would agree with me.
I was tagged a while back and didn't play along. Not because I'm so so cooler than that. I just forgot. Because I wasn't blogging.
I'm going to leave you hanging on that cliff so you will tune in tomorrow (or the day after) to read the answers to my tagged thingy-do.
God Bless you all this Christmas in the very Fundy born-again sense. I wish you all salvation this year!
Monday, September 3, 2007
Where have all the posties gone?
Where have I been? What have I been doing? Making great strides in my research? Discovering new facets to the historical world as we know it? Making friends and influencing people?
Goodness no! I’ve mostly been eating a lot of coco-dyno-bites (you know, the ones in the bag that taste just like the cartoon theme ones but come at a more pleasant price per ounce), playing a lot of mine sweeper and ignoring anything that takes effort or thought.
Now wait, minesweeper is a fine game that makes you think by working the strategy and pattern part of your brain, right? Um. Yeah. Maybe. If that is the case, I may find myself giving that up too.
In addition to blogging, I have been neglecting my housework, my responsibility to recruit a new pre-school Sunday school staff, my life group Bible study book (Covenant Marriage, by Gary Chapman, in case you were wondering) and I’ve been neglecting my friends too. That’s a great deal of work to neglect. However do I find the time to neglect so much? Well. I’m glad you asked.
The other things eating up my time (besides chocolate cereal and playing mindless games) have been quality time with my mom and my kids. Mom goes back to work tomorrow and the last couple of weeks have been filled with the heady rays of summer sun and little girl play. There have been dress up picnics and many, many mud-pies. I have spent many an hour pulling dandelions from my grass and while watching little golden heads glowing in the sun and running—it can only be called merrily—about the yard. Yup. It has been a nice summer. I have a feeling that this little piece of internet real estate will rise in value to me as the rains of autumn fall on us and we girls are stuck inside the house, with only inside things to entertain us.
This cereal fueled summer indolence can’t last forever. The hum fall harvest activity, like the busy squirrels of my yard, is all around. Our fall activities? A friend and I are going to co-op a little pre-school for our kids. I will be taking the girls to play group twice a week. I plan on joining one of those charming circuit training centers for girls only. And doing lots of sewing. Mostly sweet little dresses for girls aged one to three. Oh, and I have been waiting for a year for a certain book to come out in paperback—it should be here in October. So my leisure reading will move from the lawn chair in the grass to the arm chair by the window. And instead of little golden heads running hither and yon I will watch the rain puddling the yard and listen for that cry that says nap is over.
But I anticipate that blogging will be a great relief and vent for my rained-in-seasonal affected-loneliness, and look forward to many hours blathering on about myself and my plans and my silly ideas, which are more fun to come up with than to support. And I am looking forward to doing some blogosphere networking. I hear there are some wonderful peers out here in info-space shaing ideas, processing the world, and dreaming together.
Goodness no! I’ve mostly been eating a lot of coco-dyno-bites (you know, the ones in the bag that taste just like the cartoon theme ones but come at a more pleasant price per ounce), playing a lot of mine sweeper and ignoring anything that takes effort or thought.
Now wait, minesweeper is a fine game that makes you think by working the strategy and pattern part of your brain, right? Um. Yeah. Maybe. If that is the case, I may find myself giving that up too.
In addition to blogging, I have been neglecting my housework, my responsibility to recruit a new pre-school Sunday school staff, my life group Bible study book (Covenant Marriage, by Gary Chapman, in case you were wondering) and I’ve been neglecting my friends too. That’s a great deal of work to neglect. However do I find the time to neglect so much? Well. I’m glad you asked.
The other things eating up my time (besides chocolate cereal and playing mindless games) have been quality time with my mom and my kids. Mom goes back to work tomorrow and the last couple of weeks have been filled with the heady rays of summer sun and little girl play. There have been dress up picnics and many, many mud-pies. I have spent many an hour pulling dandelions from my grass and while watching little golden heads glowing in the sun and running—it can only be called merrily—about the yard. Yup. It has been a nice summer. I have a feeling that this little piece of internet real estate will rise in value to me as the rains of autumn fall on us and we girls are stuck inside the house, with only inside things to entertain us.
This cereal fueled summer indolence can’t last forever. The hum fall harvest activity, like the busy squirrels of my yard, is all around. Our fall activities? A friend and I are going to co-op a little pre-school for our kids. I will be taking the girls to play group twice a week. I plan on joining one of those charming circuit training centers for girls only. And doing lots of sewing. Mostly sweet little dresses for girls aged one to three. Oh, and I have been waiting for a year for a certain book to come out in paperback—it should be here in October. So my leisure reading will move from the lawn chair in the grass to the arm chair by the window. And instead of little golden heads running hither and yon I will watch the rain puddling the yard and listen for that cry that says nap is over.
But I anticipate that blogging will be a great relief and vent for my rained-in-seasonal affected-loneliness, and look forward to many hours blathering on about myself and my plans and my silly ideas, which are more fun to come up with than to support. And I am looking forward to doing some blogosphere networking. I hear there are some wonderful peers out here in info-space shaing ideas, processing the world, and dreaming together.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Chinese Fringe Theory
I did a little exploring on Wikipedia. I wouldn’t want to waste my time on something that had been well researched by an authoritative body after all. What I discovered made me sad. There is little, if any at all, room for my favorite fringe theory.
Of course, the history of China would be very well studied and understood. And very old. Despite this, I dearly want to tie the great Chinese explorative nautical history in with the first wave of population of the Americas.
Any of the ways it has been represented to me in any grade level of world civ, I have found the theory of a bunch of folk crossing the Bering Straight hard to swallow. It’s just so dad gum hard with so little reward along the way.
I was just formulating my sophomoric ideas that would replace the Bering Straight Theory when I found a like minded person. It was on that infamous and previously mentioned day when the under-resourced gentleman of questionable sanity came to my photo-copy store and told me all about the ancient Chinese Junk found crashed at the mouth of the Columbia River that has long been a part of the Great Historical Cover Up. I loved that he was wandering around the city telling anyone who would listen about my great new idea. I decided that I maybe wasn’t so far off.
But according to Wikipedia the great era of Chinese navigation was some thousands of years after the Maya and their equally advanced kith and kin were at the height of their powers. Previously, I had figured that my delightfully quicky distrust of carbon dating and other things science would be enough to cover over any large dating troubles. But squish as I might, the Maya are older and the Chinese ship stuff is newer than I wanted.
But my research is not yet complete. Oh no. I still have to learn about the populating of the Pacific Islands. And I would like to read something a little more definite about Chinese history. I don’t think I can find evidence for My Pet Theory in current, easy to access, easy to understand scholarship, but I can look. And I can read. And I do think that in my effort to compile a researched, scholarly, body of data for a crazy idea that is hardly worth the time of day, I will actually learn something and use my brain. And to this fundynutter, that’s what blogging is all about.
Of course, the history of China would be very well studied and understood. And very old. Despite this, I dearly want to tie the great Chinese explorative nautical history in with the first wave of population of the Americas.
Any of the ways it has been represented to me in any grade level of world civ, I have found the theory of a bunch of folk crossing the Bering Straight hard to swallow. It’s just so dad gum hard with so little reward along the way.
I was just formulating my sophomoric ideas that would replace the Bering Straight Theory when I found a like minded person. It was on that infamous and previously mentioned day when the under-resourced gentleman of questionable sanity came to my photo-copy store and told me all about the ancient Chinese Junk found crashed at the mouth of the Columbia River that has long been a part of the Great Historical Cover Up. I loved that he was wandering around the city telling anyone who would listen about my great new idea. I decided that I maybe wasn’t so far off.
But according to Wikipedia the great era of Chinese navigation was some thousands of years after the Maya and their equally advanced kith and kin were at the height of their powers. Previously, I had figured that my delightfully quicky distrust of carbon dating and other things science would be enough to cover over any large dating troubles. But squish as I might, the Maya are older and the Chinese ship stuff is newer than I wanted.
But my research is not yet complete. Oh no. I still have to learn about the populating of the Pacific Islands. And I would like to read something a little more definite about Chinese history. I don’t think I can find evidence for My Pet Theory in current, easy to access, easy to understand scholarship, but I can look. And I can read. And I do think that in my effort to compile a researched, scholarly, body of data for a crazy idea that is hardly worth the time of day, I will actually learn something and use my brain. And to this fundynutter, that’s what blogging is all about.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Really Good Dirt
I like to garden. I like to garden with my kids. I like to help people, especially when that help is the oh so American teaching-folks-to-fish-with-their-own-bootstraps kind of help.
I really like these Seed Ballz. I saw them on TV this morning and thought it was worth blogging about. The product is a charming packet full of smalls balls of dirt with seeds in them. You can prepare your soil and then just sprinkle the Seed Ballz over the top. The birds can't eat your seeds, the seeds won't blow away, and even a one year old can plant balls full of seeds.
But the thing that takes them out of the "ordinary cool" category and into the "I should blog that!" category is how they are made. I couldn't find a website with their story on it, so I will just post what I heard, which was a cursory introduction, and not in detail.
Seed Ballz, the company, employs developmentally disabled adults to create their product. The ballz are hand mixed and hand rolled much like making cookie dough. Adults whose opportunity support themselves was previously limited by ability can now do so by working with a local company that respects them. I know I would like to be able to do that.
When compared to the pride and self respect that providing for yourself brings, this third point is just a small thing. But it is always nice to find innovative and simple products made locally.
I can't wait to buy some for next springs flower garden.
http://www.kaboodle.com/reviews/drop-grow-seed-ballz (that's a place you can read about and buy Seed Ballz for your own garden.)
I really like these Seed Ballz. I saw them on TV this morning and thought it was worth blogging about. The product is a charming packet full of smalls balls of dirt with seeds in them. You can prepare your soil and then just sprinkle the Seed Ballz over the top. The birds can't eat your seeds, the seeds won't blow away, and even a one year old can plant balls full of seeds.
But the thing that takes them out of the "ordinary cool" category and into the "I should blog that!" category is how they are made. I couldn't find a website with their story on it, so I will just post what I heard, which was a cursory introduction, and not in detail.
Seed Ballz, the company, employs developmentally disabled adults to create their product. The ballz are hand mixed and hand rolled much like making cookie dough. Adults whose opportunity support themselves was previously limited by ability can now do so by working with a local company that respects them. I know I would like to be able to do that.
When compared to the pride and self respect that providing for yourself brings, this third point is just a small thing. But it is always nice to find innovative and simple products made locally.
I can't wait to buy some for next springs flower garden.
http://www.kaboodle.com/reviews/drop-grow-seed-ballz (that's a place you can read about and buy Seed Ballz for your own garden.)
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Can I Take Your Order?
I am transitioning to my very own domain name, thanks to my darling brother. However, I work on ancient equipment with a dial up connection and aging software. So I haven't figured out how to get a theme to look right on my computer, though it looks fabulous on his.
That insight into my outside life complete, let me share with you my current thoughts on the injustice of living in a melting pot society. Oh yes, the injustice.
If we lived in one of the many old countries that conspired to make us, Daniel and I would be experts in making, say, shepherds pie. Or beans on toast. Or maybe fish and chips. But no. I live in a melting pot. And I can eat fabulous ethnic food all around town or in the homes of friends blessed with more interesting ethnicity.
I've been told that America doesn't have culture. I can easily, but won't now, debate that point. I will say, how could one expect us to? Let's keep to the analogy of food. How could we be expected to create a uniquely American Culinary expression when at the same time, our partners and families expect us to be able to cook whatever it is they ate recently at that one good restaurant we liked so much?
How can I be expected to cook really great American food when one night we need to have the best ever from scratch lasagna? And the next night it is a slightly more generic stir fry? Or bierocks? Or spanakopita? Verinikas? Peirogies? Yorkshire puddings? And I can't count the times that gnocci's have come up in conversation. And orange chicken. And enchiladas, tortillas another item much better when made from scratch. When you have a kitchen aide mixer aren't you supposed to make your own pizza crust? And wait, aren't we barista's too? Creating coffee drinks (is this maybe just because I am from the PNW?) but with those drinks we need scones, custard tarts, crisped rice cereal treats?
As you can tell, I like to cook. But after a whirlwind trip around the globe in my kitchen this week, I wondered if it was fair. Do family cooks in say, Mongolia, have to master Bosnian sausage? (Yes, this is a frequent request from my husband, though I haven't braved the Bosnian meat market to try it out.) Is it just the family cook in the more immigrant-attractive countries that have to master Belgian waffles, french fries, German pancakes and Swedish cinnamon rolls? Wouldn't I be much better at this job if I had a more limited region of focus? Family cooks in Mexico could beat my enchilada's with both hands tied behind their back. But they don't shelve the chipotle spice after dinner and pull out the kalamata olives at lunch.
Yup. Right now the fundynutter is all riled up about the limitations inherent in cooking from a global cookbook. I think maybe it is because my smarter mind is being confounded by the technicalities of the blog world. Only time will tell, won't it?
That insight into my outside life complete, let me share with you my current thoughts on the injustice of living in a melting pot society. Oh yes, the injustice.
If we lived in one of the many old countries that conspired to make us, Daniel and I would be experts in making, say, shepherds pie. Or beans on toast. Or maybe fish and chips. But no. I live in a melting pot. And I can eat fabulous ethnic food all around town or in the homes of friends blessed with more interesting ethnicity.
I've been told that America doesn't have culture. I can easily, but won't now, debate that point. I will say, how could one expect us to? Let's keep to the analogy of food. How could we be expected to create a uniquely American Culinary expression when at the same time, our partners and families expect us to be able to cook whatever it is they ate recently at that one good restaurant we liked so much?
How can I be expected to cook really great American food when one night we need to have the best ever from scratch lasagna? And the next night it is a slightly more generic stir fry? Or bierocks? Or spanakopita? Verinikas? Peirogies? Yorkshire puddings? And I can't count the times that gnocci's have come up in conversation. And orange chicken. And enchiladas, tortillas another item much better when made from scratch. When you have a kitchen aide mixer aren't you supposed to make your own pizza crust? And wait, aren't we barista's too? Creating coffee drinks (is this maybe just because I am from the PNW?) but with those drinks we need scones, custard tarts, crisped rice cereal treats?
As you can tell, I like to cook. But after a whirlwind trip around the globe in my kitchen this week, I wondered if it was fair. Do family cooks in say, Mongolia, have to master Bosnian sausage? (Yes, this is a frequent request from my husband, though I haven't braved the Bosnian meat market to try it out.) Is it just the family cook in the more immigrant-attractive countries that have to master Belgian waffles, french fries, German pancakes and Swedish cinnamon rolls? Wouldn't I be much better at this job if I had a more limited region of focus? Family cooks in Mexico could beat my enchilada's with both hands tied behind their back. But they don't shelve the chipotle spice after dinner and pull out the kalamata olives at lunch.
Yup. Right now the fundynutter is all riled up about the limitations inherent in cooking from a global cookbook. I think maybe it is because my smarter mind is being confounded by the technicalities of the blog world. Only time will tell, won't it?
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Summer Childrens Worker Agreement
Ah'm ar-fully proud of this here document Ah cree-ated. I'm interum person-who-gets-yelled-at-all-the-time about preschool stuff at church (note: its the parents who do the yelling.) The official person-who-gets-yelled-at-all-the-time is on "maternity leave." Why would a person want "leave" from such a great job as that?
I made these instructions for my Sunday School teachers and nursery volunteers because I knew no one could come to a training meeting. And I didn't want them to show up in a room crammed full of two year olds with now idea what to do. Right thoughty of me, weren't it?
Summer Children’s Worker Team
Welcome and thank you! I am excited for all the fun we will have this summer.
By teaching, helping, or signing up as a substitute you are blessing the whole church this summer. Thank you so much.
This packet should answer your questions about the Summer Children’s Worker Team. If it doesn’t, please feel free to call me (Traci Hilton) at xxx-xxxx
Services for children, Summer 2007:
` Saturday night children’s church, newborn to age 5
` Sunday morning nursery, newborn to 23 months
` Sunday morning toddlers, 2 and 3 year olds
` Sunday morning preschool, 4 and 5 year olds
Our Obejective:
Each week we have two hours to teach small children about God’s love and lead them to Jesus. Our tools are the stories from God’s word, directed play, group games, music, conversation and our love and commitment.
Quick, but important, housekeeping reminders:
Saturday night and nursery class are in the nursery. Earphones are available for nursing mom’s who would like to continue listening to the sermon.
Toddler class is in the “whale room.” End of the hall with the bathrooms, downstairs.
Preschool is upstairs in the regular preschool class, end of the hall, right side.
Arrive ten minutes before service each week to pray for your kids, set up the class room, and welcome the children.
Take attendance each week, including teachers and helpers.
Tools for the job:
Each week’s lesson will be in an accordion folder in your classroom, labeled by date. Please pick it up by the week before so you can prepare for you class.
On the supply shelves you will find awards, stickers, and bubbles to be used for positive reinforcement, games, or crafts.
Upstairs, near the preschool classroom, you will find a supplies room. It is stocked with all sorts of supplies for your classroom, including stickers, craft supplies, and flannel graph. Please use these supplies freely in class to enrich your lessons.
Discipline:
Please watch each week for reasons to give the children an award. Great things to recognize are: using polite words, sharing toys, helping clean or set up, paying attention to story time. Use your imagination and try to award each child every week. Positive reinforcement should help minimize need for reactionary discipline.
When kids get out of line (running, yelling hitting, etc.) please redirect their energy or use some form of time-out to calm the child down. (30 seconds is usually sufficient.) Children who can’t be calmed or redirected may need to be taken to their parents to restore order in the class.
Ideas for reinforcing your story/lesson:
Review the story during snack or craft. Blow bubbles, hand out stickers, give high fives, to kids who answer the questions.
Use the picture Bibles, flannel graphs, or props to review by acting out key elements of your story. Make sure every child gets a turn.
Send home the parent take home page or a copy of the story (depending on what your curriculum offers) so parents know what they are learning and can review at home.
Final Notes:
If you are unable to teach your week please try to arrange to trade weeks with another teacher. We don’t have many substitute volunteers this year so let’s not over work them!
I am so thankful for all of you. I love our preschool age children and love working with them. You are a blessing to them. I pray that you are blessed this summer as you serve them.
This packet will also include:
` Children’s Worker Agreement
` Children’s Worker Application
` Nursery Pamphlet (for nursery volunteers)
` Nursery Maintenance and Guidelines (for nursery volunteers)
` Schedule
I made these instructions for my Sunday School teachers and nursery volunteers because I knew no one could come to a training meeting. And I didn't want them to show up in a room crammed full of two year olds with now idea what to do. Right thoughty of me, weren't it?
Summer Children’s Worker Team
Welcome and thank you! I am excited for all the fun we will have this summer.
By teaching, helping, or signing up as a substitute you are blessing the whole church this summer. Thank you so much.
This packet should answer your questions about the Summer Children’s Worker Team. If it doesn’t, please feel free to call me (Traci Hilton) at xxx-xxxx
Services for children, Summer 2007:
` Saturday night children’s church, newborn to age 5
` Sunday morning nursery, newborn to 23 months
` Sunday morning toddlers, 2 and 3 year olds
` Sunday morning preschool, 4 and 5 year olds
Our Obejective:
Each week we have two hours to teach small children about God’s love and lead them to Jesus. Our tools are the stories from God’s word, directed play, group games, music, conversation and our love and commitment.
Quick, but important, housekeeping reminders:
Saturday night and nursery class are in the nursery. Earphones are available for nursing mom’s who would like to continue listening to the sermon.
Toddler class is in the “whale room.” End of the hall with the bathrooms, downstairs.
Preschool is upstairs in the regular preschool class, end of the hall, right side.
Arrive ten minutes before service each week to pray for your kids, set up the class room, and welcome the children.
Take attendance each week, including teachers and helpers.
Tools for the job:
Each week’s lesson will be in an accordion folder in your classroom, labeled by date. Please pick it up by the week before so you can prepare for you class.
On the supply shelves you will find awards, stickers, and bubbles to be used for positive reinforcement, games, or crafts.
Upstairs, near the preschool classroom, you will find a supplies room. It is stocked with all sorts of supplies for your classroom, including stickers, craft supplies, and flannel graph. Please use these supplies freely in class to enrich your lessons.
Discipline:
Please watch each week for reasons to give the children an award. Great things to recognize are: using polite words, sharing toys, helping clean or set up, paying attention to story time. Use your imagination and try to award each child every week. Positive reinforcement should help minimize need for reactionary discipline.
When kids get out of line (running, yelling hitting, etc.) please redirect their energy or use some form of time-out to calm the child down. (30 seconds is usually sufficient.) Children who can’t be calmed or redirected may need to be taken to their parents to restore order in the class.
Ideas for reinforcing your story/lesson:
Review the story during snack or craft. Blow bubbles, hand out stickers, give high fives, to kids who answer the questions.
Use the picture Bibles, flannel graphs, or props to review by acting out key elements of your story. Make sure every child gets a turn.
Send home the parent take home page or a copy of the story (depending on what your curriculum offers) so parents know what they are learning and can review at home.
Final Notes:
If you are unable to teach your week please try to arrange to trade weeks with another teacher. We don’t have many substitute volunteers this year so let’s not over work them!
I am so thankful for all of you. I love our preschool age children and love working with them. You are a blessing to them. I pray that you are blessed this summer as you serve them.
This packet will also include:
` Children’s Worker Agreement
` Children’s Worker Application
` Nursery Pamphlet (for nursery volunteers)
` Nursery Maintenance and Guidelines (for nursery volunteers)
` Schedule
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Politics, or something kind of resembling that.
Get out your tin foil hats, because you don’t want the government to use their satellites to read your brain while you read this. It could get you in big trouble—oh yes—big trouble. In fact, I had better switch to a stealthy spy font. But you know what, even with the spy font, I am willing to type this. I am willing to risk myself to spread knowledge.
The government exists for a limited time but the individual is eternal.
What? Chuck Colson said that already? Well then. I guess he would know, wouldn’t he. So… um… sorry about the unnecessary tin-foil-hat warning. I guess you can put them back into the lead-lined hat box under your floor panels.
Shall this be a twenty year late book review instead? Born Again by Chuck Colson is brilliant. Truly brilliant. I had the privilege of growing up going to church and getting “born again” not very many years after I was born the first time. But Chuck Colson. He got saved in the middle of the 20th century’s biggest American political scandal—and he was the bad guy! For a number of reasons, including that he is still active as a leader of the conservative church on the east coast, I would wager that his new-found salvation wasn’t just a means to wiggle his way into the public’s good side. Another reason I would suggest that he was sincere, he plead guilty to his crimes and spent time in jail. It would seem that after being born again, he realized that was the right thing to do. And that is what his book is about. How Christ changed his life so entirely that he actually turned from his previous ways and began a lifetime of living anew. Just like he was born all over again.
That concept up there, in the stealthy font, was a big eye opener him. It was a big eye opener to me as well. I think it is a very good explanation of the difference between republican and democrat. It would seem to me that democrats want to do everything they absolutely can to improve the experience on earth of their fellow man. And it might seem that republicans want to preserve the wealth of the individual at all costs. But on the philosophical level, both parties want to do absolutely everything they can to improve the experience on earth of their fellow man. Democrats believe that the government is the appropriate entity to do this job. Republicans believe that the individual is the appropriate entity.
So I take the concept of eternity, and apply it to the two entities. The state will dissolve or at least evolve beyond recognition over time. Nothing that the government applies to itself will last forever. But people are eternal. When their life here on earth is over, their spirit lives on in community and relationship. A study of the book of Revelation (that one at the end of the Bible) will show that after our life on earth ends a new earth will exist where what we have done here determines what we get to do there.
What the individual chooses to do to better mankind will affect each eternal individual. It will also affect the eternity of the acting person.
So I vote republican because I believe that fewer taxes means more money in the hands of the people. And money in the hands of the people means opportunity for everyone to serve each other.
The earlier version of this post was very stream of conscience and left me unsatisfied. It is still true that I think Barak Obama could be a good president for our country. But it turns out that that wasn’t what was meant to be the point of all this. It was much more valuable to me to think over again why the responsibility to look after the less fortunate belongs to the individual.
The government exists for a limited time but the individual is eternal.
What? Chuck Colson said that already? Well then. I guess he would know, wouldn’t he. So… um… sorry about the unnecessary tin-foil-hat warning. I guess you can put them back into the lead-lined hat box under your floor panels.
Shall this be a twenty year late book review instead? Born Again by Chuck Colson is brilliant. Truly brilliant. I had the privilege of growing up going to church and getting “born again” not very many years after I was born the first time. But Chuck Colson. He got saved in the middle of the 20th century’s biggest American political scandal—and he was the bad guy! For a number of reasons, including that he is still active as a leader of the conservative church on the east coast, I would wager that his new-found salvation wasn’t just a means to wiggle his way into the public’s good side. Another reason I would suggest that he was sincere, he plead guilty to his crimes and spent time in jail. It would seem that after being born again, he realized that was the right thing to do. And that is what his book is about. How Christ changed his life so entirely that he actually turned from his previous ways and began a lifetime of living anew. Just like he was born all over again.
That concept up there, in the stealthy font, was a big eye opener him. It was a big eye opener to me as well. I think it is a very good explanation of the difference between republican and democrat. It would seem to me that democrats want to do everything they absolutely can to improve the experience on earth of their fellow man. And it might seem that republicans want to preserve the wealth of the individual at all costs. But on the philosophical level, both parties want to do absolutely everything they can to improve the experience on earth of their fellow man. Democrats believe that the government is the appropriate entity to do this job. Republicans believe that the individual is the appropriate entity.
So I take the concept of eternity, and apply it to the two entities. The state will dissolve or at least evolve beyond recognition over time. Nothing that the government applies to itself will last forever. But people are eternal. When their life here on earth is over, their spirit lives on in community and relationship. A study of the book of Revelation (that one at the end of the Bible) will show that after our life on earth ends a new earth will exist where what we have done here determines what we get to do there.
What the individual chooses to do to better mankind will affect each eternal individual. It will also affect the eternity of the acting person.
So I vote republican because I believe that fewer taxes means more money in the hands of the people. And money in the hands of the people means opportunity for everyone to serve each other.
The earlier version of this post was very stream of conscience and left me unsatisfied. It is still true that I think Barak Obama could be a good president for our country. But it turns out that that wasn’t what was meant to be the point of all this. It was much more valuable to me to think over again why the responsibility to look after the less fortunate belongs to the individual.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
“What went down on the Harry Potter Thread” or “I always was contentious”
Contentious is not a very pretty word. And it is not a very flattering descriptive when used by the boy you are madly mad for and hope to marry some day. And for some of us, who are read up on our Proverbs, it brings to mind a drippy faucet and husbands sleeping out on the roof of the house to get away from you.
And yet, no one seems to disagree that I am kind of, sort of, well… contentious. Shhh, don’t say it so loudly. I don't want anyone in the blogosphere to know that... yet.
But this is how it happened. I felt, in an internet conversation, as though some hard-core Christians types weren’t being given the same liberties that other people groups, or groups of people with a shared paradigm would be given.
I thought, “Hey! If I said that about the Unitarian Church I would be pummeled over the head with a dead fish!”
I thought, these are reasonable, liberal minded, gracious and intelligent ladies. If I just quickly explain in no-uncertain-terms that they are really wrong to limit the freedom of thought/choice/speech to people based on their religion, they will totally get it and say “Oh Traci! We get it now! Thanks for that!”
But. Well. I guess people don’t like no-uncertain-terms and contentious-ish conversing. We do love each other, at that internet hangout where the misunderstanding occurred, so no harm done. But I would like to attempt to re-state my case; I’d like to see if I could make it make a little more sense.
Premise 1: Fundamentalist Christians are a people group.
Premise 2: People groups differ in paradigm, one from the other
Premise 3: Paradigms are made up of internal information, or "stuff"
Premise 4: Paradigms determine decision making
Premise 5: People groups have rights
Premise 6: Decision making is a right
Ergo
Fundamentalist Christians have the right to make their decisions based on the stuff that forms their paradigm, i.e. the Bible.
Specifically, those hard-core fundies who decide that they will avoid Harry Potter because of the witchcraft element have the right to do so. To require them to read the book before they decide if it is right or wrong for them to read it is to negate their right to their world view. The many folks who abstained from the books/movies/merchandising tie-ins did so because their conscience compelled them to. For them, the scriptures that speak about steering clear of witchcraft were more important than what the book may have been allegorical to. To them, God didn’t need an allegory that used forbidden subject matter to increase His Glory.
And how do I feel about it? I abstained from the books because I live in a world filled with real true wicca practice and have a handful of friends who take it seriously. I worked at a pregnancy counseling center, attended a public university and at those places met many other people involved in wicca. I didn't care if anyone else read Harry Potter, they are kids books for heavens sake. I saw it as a truly personal thing and not a groupthink thing. At that time, I didn't want to cloud my perception of wicca by getting all involved in an entertainment version of a real religion that is (excuse the political incorrectness) abhorrant to God.
Um. But Traci. I thought you said you love Harry Potter.
Well, then there is that. I, uh, well, you see I graduated and got a different job and the movies looked really cool (I dig fantasy in literature and film) and my dearest (the one who married me even though he pointed out my contentiousness) thought they looked cool. So we watched the movies and really, really, really liked them.
I still believe firmly that people have the right abstain from things their worldview deems forbidden without being considered ignorant. They aren't ignorant. They are differently informed.
And yet, no one seems to disagree that I am kind of, sort of, well… contentious. Shhh, don’t say it so loudly. I don't want anyone in the blogosphere to know that... yet.
But this is how it happened. I felt, in an internet conversation, as though some hard-core Christians types weren’t being given the same liberties that other people groups, or groups of people with a shared paradigm would be given.
I thought, “Hey! If I said that about the Unitarian Church I would be pummeled over the head with a dead fish!”
I thought, these are reasonable, liberal minded, gracious and intelligent ladies. If I just quickly explain in no-uncertain-terms that they are really wrong to limit the freedom of thought/choice/speech to people based on their religion, they will totally get it and say “Oh Traci! We get it now! Thanks for that!”
But. Well. I guess people don’t like no-uncertain-terms and contentious-ish conversing. We do love each other, at that internet hangout where the misunderstanding occurred, so no harm done. But I would like to attempt to re-state my case; I’d like to see if I could make it make a little more sense.
Premise 1: Fundamentalist Christians are a people group.
Premise 2: People groups differ in paradigm, one from the other
Premise 3: Paradigms are made up of internal information, or "stuff"
Premise 4: Paradigms determine decision making
Premise 5: People groups have rights
Premise 6: Decision making is a right
Ergo
Fundamentalist Christians have the right to make their decisions based on the stuff that forms their paradigm, i.e. the Bible.
Specifically, those hard-core fundies who decide that they will avoid Harry Potter because of the witchcraft element have the right to do so. To require them to read the book before they decide if it is right or wrong for them to read it is to negate their right to their world view. The many folks who abstained from the books/movies/merchandising tie-ins did so because their conscience compelled them to. For them, the scriptures that speak about steering clear of witchcraft were more important than what the book may have been allegorical to. To them, God didn’t need an allegory that used forbidden subject matter to increase His Glory.
And how do I feel about it? I abstained from the books because I live in a world filled with real true wicca practice and have a handful of friends who take it seriously. I worked at a pregnancy counseling center, attended a public university and at those places met many other people involved in wicca. I didn't care if anyone else read Harry Potter, they are kids books for heavens sake. I saw it as a truly personal thing and not a groupthink thing. At that time, I didn't want to cloud my perception of wicca by getting all involved in an entertainment version of a real religion that is (excuse the political incorrectness) abhorrant to God.
Um. But Traci. I thought you said you love Harry Potter.
Well, then there is that. I, uh, well, you see I graduated and got a different job and the movies looked really cool (I dig fantasy in literature and film) and my dearest (the one who married me even though he pointed out my contentiousness) thought they looked cool. So we watched the movies and really, really, really liked them.
I still believe firmly that people have the right abstain from things their worldview deems forbidden without being considered ignorant. They aren't ignorant. They are differently informed.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Fun, Fun, Fundyness
Who needs a dictionary when you can define yourself by another’s insults! It was ten years ago and I stood up in class (dramatic? No, never.) And I said: “You are forgetting about the people in the world who think pornography is wrong because it is the graphic depiction of sex.”
Blank stares. “Heh?” looks.
And then “Who believes that?” The voice was incredulous. The person was another student in my History of Feminism class.
Always with an answer I said: “Mormons, Muslims, Catholics, Christians”
“Oh!” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Fundamentalist groups.”
That’s me. A fundamentalist groupie.
A handful of months ago (how many can you hold in your hand? Less than a handful of m&m’s more than a handful of nails, I guess) another friend was working of clarifying definitions for her dissertation. She used Christian, Pentecostal, and I think I remember her using fundamentalist as synonyms. I would say that Christians include Pentecostals and Pentecostals are among the fundamentalist Christians, while at the same time, according to the fellow student ten years ago, fundamentalist would be anyone adhering strictly to the fundamentals of their religion, so long as it is a religion of conservative values. (Yes, I am inferring that last part.)
So, I think I fit the category of fundamentalist as a part of the larger Christian Church, and fundamentalist as a part of the conservative world which holds to a religion with reactionary views. (You know, reactionary. As in wanting to turn back the political clock to a different era. Not reacts loudly to stimulus.)
But why, oh why am I a nutter, in the classical sense?
Well, one day about twelve years ago, I was minding my own business making photocopies at the local print shop where I worked. A seemingly homeless man of questionable stability paid for his photocopies and told me all about how he had to hurry and mail them to the Mayor’s office before it was too late. Then he told me all about his theory of how the Native American’s got to the continent. And I said: “I knew it! I knew I was right about that!”
Yup, the nice, brilliant, under-resourced, probably under-medicated, man confirmed me in the firm belief of one of my pet theories. When you need the homeless and unstable to back you up because no one else will. Well then. It must be time to get a blog.
Blank stares. “Heh?” looks.
And then “Who believes that?” The voice was incredulous. The person was another student in my History of Feminism class.
Always with an answer I said: “Mormons, Muslims, Catholics, Christians”
“Oh!” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Fundamentalist groups.”
That’s me. A fundamentalist groupie.
A handful of months ago (how many can you hold in your hand? Less than a handful of m&m’s more than a handful of nails, I guess) another friend was working of clarifying definitions for her dissertation. She used Christian, Pentecostal, and I think I remember her using fundamentalist as synonyms. I would say that Christians include Pentecostals and Pentecostals are among the fundamentalist Christians, while at the same time, according to the fellow student ten years ago, fundamentalist would be anyone adhering strictly to the fundamentals of their religion, so long as it is a religion of conservative values. (Yes, I am inferring that last part.)
So, I think I fit the category of fundamentalist as a part of the larger Christian Church, and fundamentalist as a part of the conservative world which holds to a religion with reactionary views. (You know, reactionary. As in wanting to turn back the political clock to a different era. Not reacts loudly to stimulus.)
But why, oh why am I a nutter, in the classical sense?
Well, one day about twelve years ago, I was minding my own business making photocopies at the local print shop where I worked. A seemingly homeless man of questionable stability paid for his photocopies and told me all about how he had to hurry and mail them to the Mayor’s office before it was too late. Then he told me all about his theory of how the Native American’s got to the continent. And I said: “I knew it! I knew I was right about that!”
Yup, the nice, brilliant, under-resourced, probably under-medicated, man confirmed me in the firm belief of one of my pet theories. When you need the homeless and unstable to back you up because no one else will. Well then. It must be time to get a blog.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Thank you Nancy Reagan?
I would like to know when developing the ability to say "no" became a Christian Virtue. I am pretty sure I remember a selfless Christ who told us to let people hit us on both sides of the face. And when our coats are stolen we are supposed to give that mean guy our shirts too. And then, while we were yet sinners, He died for us.
But nobody wants to sit in the nursery with my very cute baby? Because they are learning how to say no? And they are really proud of their achievement? Yay! Celebrate! Today I became less like Christ!
And then sometimes I say "Whoooo-wee! I'm exhausted! Why do I keep volunteering for [fill in the blank]?" and they say "because you don't know how to say no.
Eh? I thought it was because I like to serve and I like to grow and I like to be challenged and I actually like preschool age children.
What I am getting at really is: when I say "Whoooo-wee! I'm exhausted! Why do I keep volunteering for [fill in the blank]?" maybe somebody could respond, "because you are getting more like Christ."
And when I say: "Hey, would you be willing to volunteer for nursery twice a month this summer?" somebody could say, "I'd love to!"
[while the concept of volunteerism is pretty nutty to the average churchgoer, I promise some real tin-foil-hat nutterness in future posts. Oh, yes. Tin-foil-hat nutty"]
But nobody wants to sit in the nursery with my very cute baby? Because they are learning how to say no? And they are really proud of their achievement? Yay! Celebrate! Today I became less like Christ!
And then sometimes I say "Whoooo-wee! I'm exhausted! Why do I keep volunteering for [fill in the blank]?" and they say "because you don't know how to say no.
Eh? I thought it was because I like to serve and I like to grow and I like to be challenged and I actually like preschool age children.
What I am getting at really is: when I say "Whoooo-wee! I'm exhausted! Why do I keep volunteering for [fill in the blank]?" maybe somebody could respond, "because you are getting more like Christ."
And when I say: "Hey, would you be willing to volunteer for nursery twice a month this summer?" somebody could say, "I'd love to!"
[while the concept of volunteerism is pretty nutty to the average churchgoer, I promise some real tin-foil-hat nutterness in future posts. Oh, yes. Tin-foil-hat nutty"]
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