I'm just pissed.

I don't know why this bothers me so dang much. Maybe someone can give me some perspective on it.

So... Mom has this screen door that is set up kinda like a window. There is a fixed piece of glass on at the top, a moveable (up and down) piece of glass in the middle--with a screen for when the "window" is open, and a sheet of metal at the bottom. Y'know how you catch the door with your hip when your hands are full? The screen part is at the exact height to be stressed by your hip when you do that, so the screen was needing to be repaired fairly regularly. A couple of times a year, for as long as she has owned, it needs to be stretched and tucked back into its side frame, from which it has been worked loose by hip action.

Last spring, not long after open-door weather has set in, Mom comes to me with her high pitched I-am-irritated-but-I'm-trying-to-be-nice voice and says, "Carlson has torn the screen." I look at it and it is indeed torn--horizontally along the bottom adjacent to the usual vertical hip-tug looseness. I ask Carlson about it. He does not know. He really does not seem to know what has happened. I don't either. And while he is a pretty rambunctious guy (and, I admit, has been allowed by his mother to grow up a somewhat wild child), and does sometimes break and tear things, he usually knows he has done it, and usually admits to it. But not always. So I tell Mom, "Carlson does not think he tore the screen. How do you think it happened?" She smirks and says she does not know, but who else would do that? I say I don't know.

The next day, the tear is worse, and has obviously been deliberately pulled. I take Carlson aside, and ask him what is going on with the screen. He does not know. No one else knows. And the next day, it is worse. I get angry. "Look, guys, whatever is happening with this screen is not an accident! Someone is DOING this, and you need to STOP!" Blank stares all around.

The next evening, I am sitting on the couch in the living room, and am startled by the cat jumping though the screen door to get into the house! a-HA! Mystery solved! So I go to my mother and say, " I figured out what is happening with the screen door. The cat is using it to come and go. She just jumped through and scared the heck outta me." I am surprised by her response. She smirks again and says, "The cat did NOT tear that screen. She may be using it to come and go, but Carlson tore it in the first place." I really do not know what to say, so I just shrug and walk away. Why would she rather believe that her Grandson tore the screen--with no apparent motivation--and lied about it, than that the cat saw the little verticle hip-hole as an opening and jumped through?

The cat continues to use the hole in the screen to come and go. Someday, when it makes it to the financial priority list--hopefully before next spring--I intend to replace the screen door with one of those sturdy, yet air-flowy, pierced metal "screen" doors.

Fast forward to today. The brother in law is here, and as he is leaving he says, "Do y'all have a dog? The screen looks like a dog's been tearing at it. I reply, "It's the cat. She uses it to come and go." And Mom smirks and pipes in, "She didn't tear it originally, though!" For some reason I can not resist the bait. "Yeah. She did." "Oh! No! She didn't!" she says, wagging her head. I continue what I am doing without response.

What the hell?

The Lady

I saw her by the old porch swing
when first we chanced to meet.
I only caught a glimpse of her
for she was in retreat.
I turned on heel and did the same
with quickened heart and feet.

I wondered where I'd see her next
but hoped I never would.
I opened wide my closet door
and gasped for there she stood
with evil smile on her face.
I knew she was no good.

From head to toe in basic black
tradition's mourning dress.
But, murderous heart! the truth is told
so none who sees need guess
a red bow tie all turned askew
She sports upon her breast.

And lately, by the garden gate
I've felt a presence--her!
And I believe she lies in wait
to make my husband widower.

(c) Ellen Rae 1985

I wrote the poem many years ago. (A fellow student in my poetry class at the time insisted that it was not about a spider, but about the fact that my (then) husband's ex-wife had turned back up in town and was making overtures. She was right, but that's another blog.) But my phobia of spiders still directly correlates to how closely they resemble a Black Widow.

I found a Black Widow in the dumpster yesterday and killed it. This was a big victory for me because heretofore I would never have been able to actually connect myself to a Black Widow, even with a five-foot stick (or broom as the case may be).

When I took trash out this morning, she was there again, alive as ever. So I killed her again. With the same broom. Which was handy because I had left it outside near the dumpster. (It is now the outside broom and will never be allowed in the house again.)

This time I killed her twice. Once with the broom, and once....(wait for it....) With. My. Foot!

Well, really, with my shoe. Which was on my foot. I actually stepped on a dead Black Widow. I am woman!

Memory: Midland, 1981; Two Bolts and Two Screws

Terry picks me up for work in his new car. It's a dark green miniature station wagon. On the drive out to the airport, where we work cleaning airplanes for Continental, I notice a small plastic rectangle on the floor near my feet. I have previously noticed a hole in the console that appears to be the same size. So I pick up the piece of plastic and slip it into the hole. It snaps neatly into place.

Terry stops mid-sentence in whatever he was talking about and says, "Two bolts and two screws."

I look at him. "Pardon?"

He repeats, "Two bolts and two screws. Oh, and about 20 minutes on my back with my head wedged against the accelerator."

When I simply stare at him blankly, he goes on, "That's what it took for me to remove it, so I can install the radio."

I took it down, again. My post on Elder Packer's talk, that is. It's very late (for me; I'm an early bird, and I am exhausted, both physically and emotionally, so I'm not going to try to explain why. It just feels like the right thing to do for the time being.

Next morning: Here's why: I am having all sorts of conflicting feelings about my blog post. I realized that I was seeking only to be understood, not to understand, and that my job at this moment is not to be understood, but to hold the gay community close and let them have their feelings, and feel my compassion. My compassion was totally eclipsed by my desire to be understood. There is a time for my truth, and this is not it.

I just finished reading about compassionate listening in the book Anger, by Thich Nhat Hahn, and I totally blipped it! I had a very enlightening talk with the friend who started it all (with her question) in the first place. She graciously accepted my intentions as honorable, while holding me accountable for the pain it caused her. If you read it, I apologize to you, as well. I am guilty of the same insensitivity I pointed out in Elder Packer. I have taken it down again, for the time being.

Up-to-date, and closed

I have not blogged for quite some time, and I'm getting ready to start up again.

I've been in a bit of a quandry for awhile now, which is partially responsible for my dearth of blogging. It is this: This is supposed to be my story, and I don't want to censor myself. And: My kids read my blog. I thought about two separate blogs with separate content, but that felt like compartmentalizing my Self--which can be quite dangerous for me. So I've settled it, I think, by making this blog "Invitation Only" and creating another blog for public viewing. This blog will have everything, and I'll repost some of it to the other.

If you received an invitation, it means I trust you with my uncensored Self. And frankly, I don't mind if total strangers read this blog. It's just a select few innocents (my kids) and a select few...um...others I'd just as soon didn't have access. If you find yourself wanting a more vanilla version of me (or find you can no longer look me in the eye when you run into me), you can follow me at the public blog.(one-eclectic-soul.blogspot.com).

So there it is. We'll see how it works.

I just spent the better of part of two hours transferring everything from my old Bebo blog, so there's even some archival stuff for those of you who haven't been with me from the beginning of my blog-journey.

Enjoy.
Or not.

Naked and Opened

We had a great lesson in Relief Society yesterday, taught by my soul-buddy Minerva T. She surprised and momentarily confused me by saying, “Sagefemme, get ready to talk about what you told me about God already knowing how we feel.” I still don’t remember the conversation, but I was able to find the scripture and read it for her: Hebrews 4:12-16. It is one of my favorites and I quote it, or paraphrase it, whenever it seems indicated, which is likely why I don’t remember sharing it with Minerva.

12 For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.
13 Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.
14 Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession.
15 For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.
16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.


I am not a Bible scholar, and have never studied Greek. I don’t pretend that my interpretation of these verses is rooted in any intellectual truth. But I do know what they say to me. (What they said to me in 2006. I know the timeframe, because I penciled the year (why not a more precise date, I don’t know) in the margin of my Bible, along with the words “stop thrashing.”)

What they say to me is this: God knows everything about you. He can separate your emotions from your thoughts. He knows your intentions. Not only are you naked before Him, you are filleted out before Him; dissected, even. This being true, and knowing that Christ has experienced everything you have experienced, why not go ahead and be honest about how you feel and what you want? He already knows, so just say it to Him. He will sympathize and give you the help you need.

After Relief Society, the sister sitting behind me put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I want to thank you for having that conversation with Minerva, even if you don’t remember it. Because I have been faking it. I am so confused and I have been trying to act like everything is fine. Thank you for showing me I can be real with Him.”

I want to add that Christ does not only know how we feel, He has felt how we feel. I mean, not like a friend who has been through a similar variation of the theme. He has felt your feelings. Your actual feelings. The feelings you are feeling right now, He already felt them for you. How can we hide from, or pull the wool over that?

In the Bible Dictionary, under Prayer, it says “As soon as we learn the true relationship in which we stand toward God (namely, God is our Father, and we are his children), then at once prayer becomes natural and instinctive on our part. Many of the so-called difficulties about prayer arise from forgetting this relationship.” For some of us, the parent-child relationship is not so clearly comfortable and nurturing as this sentence implies. Hiding my feelings, denying my needs, keeping conversation on a superficial level; these were all coping strategies I developed because of the kind of parents I had. Sadly, my children learned the same things from their parents. But I now have some perspective on the kind of parent I wish I was. And I can translate that into an image of loving parents who really see their children, and who want them to feel loved and secure and to have their needs met and their wants granted.

I think we often have an image of our Heavenly Father—perpetuated by some of the teachings we have about prayer—as of a King. We have guidelines for how we are to address God in our prayers; we use the formal (and actually archaic) “Thee” and “Thou.” We should kneel. We should thank first and ask later…. It can seem as though we are being given an etiquette lesson on how to behave in the presence of royalty—curtsy this way, bow that way. I am not saying that these guidelines are wrong, or that we should not use them. I am just pointing out how this sort of training, without a balance of knowing how well He knows us and how much He loves us, can skew our understanding of---make us forget---the relationship that we have with Him.

We can certainly be real with God and continue to exhibit the reverence and respect He is due. When we pray in meetings or otherwise in public, we behave with proper respect and decorum, just as we would as a prince or princess in an affair of state. But when we have a splinter in our finger, we can let our lip quiver when we show it to Him, and we can holler at the pain when He pulls it out. And we do not have to bow or curtsy our gratitude, but can fling our arms around His neck and touch noses. When we’ve sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night and rolled the car, we can call Him. We can tell Him the truth (cuz He already knows) and we can count on Him to lovingly stitch our lip, ice our bumped head and get us safely home to bed.

He sees us naked. He sees us broken. He sees right through us to the marrow of our souls. He has felt our sorrow, anger, pain, joy. And He loves us anyway. Let’s boldly go before Him then, and open ourselves fully, not only to His scrutiny, but to His mercy, His grace and His love.

State "O" the Union Brickfish