Ruminations from the Temple

The ground was still smoking. So many were gone. Those once considered close were no more than memories now – ghosts that haunted her. She kept walking. She didn’t want to. She wanted to turn around and try, one more time, to work for common ground. But she knew it was fruitless, so she set her face toward the horizon and kept putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, it seemed, years had passed. She had found a refuge, a place to be until the pain subsided. In that refuge, she could forget and focus her attention on the tasks at hand. Curiosity had always been her most loyal companion, and she had let it guide her. She had worked through the training, and when she completed one level, she started another. She just wasn’t ready to integrate the past into her present quite yet. Now, halfway up the mountain, she was spent. The past wasn’t going to be silent any longer. She had been pretty successful at keeping her eyes focused on the present, not letting the niggl...

If things had happened differently, I would still be stuck in my craft room on South Hill. I would still be dealing with struggling, broken people, hearing the same old tired stories, and thinking the same old tired thoughts. If things had happened differently, I would have gone to Barb’s funeral, I would have never sent that resignation letter, I would…might…still be sitting in the front row, still coordinating the festivals, and definitely be unutterably bored and stagnant. If things had happened differently, I would not have grown. Or possibly, something more mundane could have happened…I could have never gone to school, never met some amazing professors, and never racked up so much school debt. I would have never realized I could achieve summa cum laude, learn great things, and think great thoughts. I might have never dreamed of working towards a masters, or dreamed of attaining a Ph.D. All of that would have never happened, if all that happened never did. If things wo...

I heard an analogy yesterday. It was so good, I have to share. It is so good for me, because it completely describes how I feel about my experience. I (try) to blame no one, as we all must take responsibility for our actions regardless of cultural conditioning, family expectations, or personal motivations of social connection and inclusion. We have all heard of children who have had invisible friends. Perhaps you had one, or one of your children did. That invisible friend, created out of a deep psychological need of some sort, is a source of comfort and companionship. The child is never alone, as they can 'conjure' up their invisible friend, speak for their invisible friend, and rely on their invisible friend at any time. However, eventually the child grows out of the need for their invisible friend, and even forgets about them as they get older; sometimes, the only ones who remember are the parents or older siblings.  But, I know many adults who have an invisib...

This simple question has been bouncing around in my brain for the past day or so after it was posed by a social media friend. The question begs an answer, and several friends came forward quickly and claimed their beliefs confidently. I, on the other hand, considered it less of an opportunity to proclaim my lack of doubt in a deity and more of something to chew on it for a bit. What do I believe? In my history I have worn many labels. When I wanted to raise my children in the church, I took on the label of a Christian, even without fully knowing all that the label entailed. After a decade of wearing that label, I removed that one and took on another – Messianic Jew. Another set of rules, another group of people all wearing the label proudly, and another decade. And in that wearing of the label was buried my beliefs. The strange thing is that not all individuals who wear a particular label actually believe the same things. My fledgling beliefs and curiosity about religious dogma...

What is good? …that which has merit, is desirable, or pleasing? Who wants to be good, to have value? As a mostly-perfectionist, I want to be good. I am not sure why, I just have a drive to be good – good as this elusive, nebulous judgment that just cannot be nailed down. I want to be a good student. And by good, I mean to get the best marks every time – not just because, but because I put forth the effort required for high marks. I want to be a good friend. The type of friend that gives comfort, refreshment, and support. I want to be a good daughter, and always make my parents proud. I want to be a good mother, loving and supporting my children as they strive for value. I want to be good partner, meshing into the mythical oneness that is the pinnacle of human experience. I am constantly striving for good…for the good. In my appearance, I want to look as good as I possibly can. In my home, I want it to be as good as we can afford – as comfortable, tidy, and w...

I am an HSP, a highly sensitive person. I am also what is called an empath. This is my experience. I take on these labels readily because it helps me understand my self and explains why I react in certain ways. I don't expect other sensitives or empaths to share my experience, and I don't consider myself an expert, other than through my own experience - this is the story of a subject-set of one . This is also my response to the many online articles and self-tests that may or may not determine whether one is highly sensitive or empathic. It has become rather vogue or faddish, it would seem, to label oneself these things. I understand - we are all in search of self-identity and self-awareness. You may see yourself in my description and experiences, perhaps not. It is my hope that my personal experience of 50 years will shed some light on the life of a sensitive-empath. Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist, nor a scholar on this subject matter. I encourage all to do th...

All my life I have struggled with my appearance. When I was a child, my mother dressed me the best she knew how, however, it was not me. She was in charge of my hair, oftentimes sitting me on the stool in front of her chair and winding my hair up in those over-used pink sponge rollers that were not comfortable to sleep on (by the way). With my hair back-combed and sprayed, and in a sweet dress she sewed herself, off I would go to elementary school picture day. I felt awful. I was told not to smile 'too big' for the picture, Elizabeth. I tried. The gawky stage didn't improve, and I was in an economic class that didn't allow for special clothing or styles some of the others could have. I wasn't in the popular group, although with my quick wit and loud mouth, you'd think so. I still felt awful about my appearance, as I just couldn't meet the perceived standard I saw in the magazines. I did manage to learn how to smile less, however. As I progressed towa...

It is the end of December, and my life is, well, being lived. Change is a good thing. Truly living is, too. When I asked my sweet man how long we have been together now, I was shocked when he replied nearly four years. Four years? Really? I guess I have been living life so hard that the time has flown by. It feels just like yesterday when I made the move that changed everything for everyone who was close to me. Sometimes change is so hard, but so necessary. In retrospect, the words at the right sum up things quite nicely. Every year that passes results in me knowing and understanding myself more. My journey of study has brought about changes of thought that I could have never foreseen. Jimmy Carter isn't the only one 'losing his religion' - with each passing term, I move farther and farther away from the devout and faithful person I was when I resigned my formal religious obligation back in 2010. For myself, once I 'see' something, it is impossible to 'uns...

Today, in this moment of quietude, I know one thing clearly: everything changes . The weather changes, as does the scenery and souls surrounding it. Companions come and go, experiences are never fully appreciated until after they have passed, and the mind is forever a ruthless taskmaster. One time, a very long time ago, I wrote a small piece describing a walk on the beach – my beloved and tranquil beach. But it wasn’t just describing the crash of the waves and the gulls flying overhead, it spoke deeply about the pain I was enduring within a group of intertwined relationships I was entangled within at that time. As I put one foot in front of the other yesterday on that same beach, I saw the ghost of myself. That ghostly-self will never exist again, but her experience has shaped and motivated where I am at this moment, to be sure. Thankfully, I didn’t wallow in that memory, even though tempting it may have been. I am on a different path now. And that is where the story of this ...

I don’t know a woman who has not struggled with her appearance. No, really. There are a lot of women who reject culture’s standard of beauty, I know. They dress as they like, forego all the fussing of nails, hair, and makeup, and they say with much boldness that they just do not care what others think. But, somehow I have never been able to get to that seemingly sweet spot of carefree humanity – a total acceptance of the shell I call my body and appearance. As I watch other woman deal with it, finding a place to somehow fit into what is called feminine, I can’t help but to compare their methods to my own. Do they grow their hair long or whack it all off? Do they go so-called natural with their makeup, go overboard, or ditch it altogether? Do they follow fashion trends or are simply a fashion victim? Don’t get me wrong – I am not judging any of them. I am just trying to figure out how they came to their ‘look’…are they happy? Are they comfortable in their skin? How did they get...