It’s my favorite month of the year, and not just because it’s my birthday month. All right, so it’s not quite April, but it’s close enough, right?
The sun has started shining in between rain showers, which means more rainbows, and flowers are peaking out. My tulips are in bloom and the rose bush I thought I destroyed with my “pruning” is absolutely raging with thorns and buds. I’m stoked for that thing to flower into a mess of roses.
The thing with spring is that it’s all about new beginnings. You clean out your closet, open the windows, wash down the walls (well, maybe only the OCD of us do that) and release all the mustiness and old energy that’s been living in our homes.
April’s Tarot card has been whispering to me for the past few days, and I couldn’t really figure out what it was trying to say. Why would The Lovers want to come up now? Isn’t it traditionally a card for May, I puzzled. (Sidenote: I am going to the Beltane celebration put on by one of the local covens this year. I promise you and myself.)
But really, if there was ever a card that shows the promise of spring, with all it’s new-life-bunny-love blossoming, it’s this card. Of course I want everyone to find love, whether it’s with a significant other or more importantly, with ourselves.
This card speaks of fulfillment and union, of understanding and opening to the masculine and the feminine. We’ve all got both of those in us, and when we can appreciate those parts of us, accepting ourselves as the complex and beautiful soul we are, that is when we find true fulfillment.
This isn’t always about love so much as it is about choice. We need to honor all parts of ourselves, which means it might be time to do some spring cleaning in our lives, whether it’s the people we choose to spend time with or the behaviors we’ve made habits.
It’s easy to continue doing things as we always have. And a lot of those thing used to serve us, but times change and so do we, especially if we want to live brilliant lives. Now is the time to make the tough decisions. Do it for love.
Hell, I’m doing it. Why don’t you? Every day you’re presented with an opportunity to make changes through the choices you make. And the habits you have are just choices you’ve made over and over.
So do some soul searching and realize what choices you’re making without thinking. Find out where you’re on auto-pilot. What requires more of your attention? Get quiet and your soul will tell you. When you turn your light of self-awareness on to those choices, you’ll start blossoming like that rose bush in my front yard.
What choices are you making every day that you’d like to change? It could be as simple as skipping the second cup of coffee or as big as breaking it off with a toxic friend.
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If you haven’t checked out my latest posts over at Jordana Paige’s blog, you should! There’s a crafty tutorial I did with my 9-year-old nephew that’s sure to impress you
“Compassion will cure more sins than condemnation.” –Henry Ward Beecher
About six months ago my book club decided we should read Lost Memory ofSkin. Now I’m a huge fan of most books. I love fiction, non-fiction is growing on me, sci-fi is awesome. But when this one came up in discussion, I got uncomfortable.
For those of you that haven’t read it or heard about it, here is the description from Bookshop Santa Cruz.
After doing time for a liaison with an underage girl, the Kid is forbidden to live within 2,500 feet of anywhere children might gather. With nowhere else to go, the Kid takes up residence under a south Florida causeway. Barely beyond childhood himself, the Kid is in many ways an innocent, trapped by impulses and foolish choices he struggles to comprehend. Enter the Professor, a man who has built his own life on secrets and lies, and who finds in the Kid the perfect subject for his research on homelessness and sex offenders. But when the Professor’s past resurfaces, the balance in the two men’s relationship shifts. Suddenly, the Kid must reconsider everything he has come to believe.
The whole sex-offender thing turned me off. And not just because people that commit those type of crimes really disgusted me. No, there was more. You see, there is plenty of sexual abuse in my history.
I was sexually abused when I was young by someone I was close to. I was sexually abused in an adult relationship after high school. I was sexually assaulted just a few years ago. (I wrote a little about it.) So you can imagine why reading this book might be a little tough for me.
I’m not the only one. In the U.S., about one in six children have been sexually abused. I’ve even heard estimates as high as one in four.
Since reading the book, and watching a little Louis CK, my mind has changed about sex offenders. I no longer hate them. They no longer disgust me. I find their behavior terrible, yes, but I’ve started to feel some sort of compassion for these folks.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve got some painful memories because of what I went through and I don’t wish it upon anyone. I think children are precious and their innocence and vulnerability should be protected vigilantly. But when your house is on fire and you’ve gotten all your beloved items out of it, do you just let it burn?
Many people who abuse were abused themselves. Mental health problems are stigmatized in our society, and often people self-medicate, causing them to make poor choices. Sex crimes are about holding power over someone, not so much about the act itself.
Society has an obligation to help these folks, and in doing so will help countless children and victims of sexual violence. What isn’t working is the no-tolerance hatred that everyone, from the far left to far right, is spewing out. It’s isolating and soul-crushing.
So the next time you see an article about a man selling his child into kiddie porn, feel disgust at the act. Feel anger. Feel rage. But also try to hold kindness in your heart, and pray that he can get help.
Because pushing all the sex offenders under the freeway isn’t going to solve the problem. Denying them what every human needs to survive isn’t the answer. Society’s house is on fire and compassion is the only thing that’ll put it out.
This summer I was chatting with my husband’s coworker who was telling me about his lady friend. He was super happy, telling me stories about how they met, their first dates and how things went from there. He had such a wide grin, I swear his cheeks would rip!
“Awww!!! I love love,” I said.
He seemed to think that was pretty funny, but it’s true folks. I am a sucker for all things love. It doesn’t matter what kind of noun it is: person, place or thing. Heck, you could even throw some verbs in there. I mean, I definitely love to eat.
Yes it’s a deep-fried Twinkie. What’s the problem?
Since I’ve always been an advocate of sending out Valentine’s Day letters,I’ve decided that this year I’d write a love letter to myself. Cheesy as it may seem, I haven’t sent myself very many of these through the years and Valentine’s Day seems like as good a day as any to start.
Dear Self,
I know you haven’t been feeling so great lately. I know you’re feeling lonely after your good friend moved away. And that’s OK to be sad. It’s normal and to tell you the truth it’s kind of a relief. You used to be so stoic when people left your life.
Maybe this surge of grief and other emotions will help you realize it’s OK to feel something other than glee, happiness, optimism and other “positive” emotions. And maybe it will help you laugh when Sante calls you the Ice Queen because you’ll realize he really is just talking about how cold your feet are.
They’re seriously freezing!
I want you to know something. I think you’re amazing. You’re smart, witty, talented and ballsy enough to actually try to use all of it. Remember that when you’re thinking of sticking your head back in the sand. Remember how much better the view is, first of all, and how much more alive you feel when you’re actually following your heart.
You’re a brave, beautiful soul. It doesn’t matter how old you get, what kind of hair cut you have or if your socks don’t match, you will always be beautiful.
Chock it up to what others have called your “incredible lust for life.” Or maybe it’s because you won’t stop listening to ridiculous music. Or insist that you’re only white on the outside. Your beauty shines from the inside out and nothing can take that away.
Know that you are making smart choices, even when you might second-guess yourself. You’re doing the right things to live life as a complete human being. I’m super proud of you for that, because I know it’s not easy. But someone once said, sometimes the right choices are the hardest ones.
I want you to know that I believe in you. You have it in you to be a successful writer and businesswoman. By your previous standards, you are already that. Keep pushing. Keep chasing your dream, because no one but you can catch it.
And even though I know you have some of the greatest people in your life, I want you to know that you’ll never be alone. I will always be here for you. You’re my favorite person and I truly love you with all my heart.
XOXO
Rebecca
When’s the last time you wrote yourself a love note? I bet it’s probably been a while. Find some time today to sit down and write one, however that looks for you. Maybe it’s dancing to your favorite song with reckless abandon or soaking in a hot tub filled with suds. However you show your love, show some to yourself today.
I’m a huge fan of birthdays. It is, after all, your own personal holiday. And I get excited about other people’s birthdays as well, which confuses some but amuses most. And really, who wouldn’t get excited about their birthday?
Apparently there are a lot of folks out there, including my hubby. And his is today. That’s right: My sweet Virgo man is celebrating his birthday today. He also happens to be returning home from a business trip, so it’s like a present for me!
Obviously I’ve been missing him these last few days, so I thought for his birthday, I’d write him a little list of things I love about him and miss in particular since he’s been away.
Eating dessert. Now we all know I’m a fan of pastries and candy. No bones about it. I love me some sugar. But it seems like things just taste better when you share them, which is probably why I enjoy giving my baked goods away. And Sante loves the brownies, cookies, fudge, cupcakes and any other treat I make.
Every night he’ll ask, “Are you having dessert?” I know damn well he is. Sitting at home alone, there’s no one to ask me that question or make that delighted “Mmm” sounds with when we’re eating something particularly decadent.
His warmth. I’m not really talking about his personality here (although I could say that too). I mean physical body heat. Sante is my furnace at night when I sleep, so when he’s away I pile on the blankets.
And in a weird way, the house cools off too. I’ve even considered turning on the heat. It’s summer! And I’d wear one of his hoodies, but even they don’t seem as thick and cozy.
Maybe I’m wearing them wrong.
Laughing. Who doesn’t like to laugh? I am certainly a fan, which is why the comedy genre is high on my list of movie preferences. I watched a few romantic comedies while Sante was away (along with some sci-fihe’s not into), but there’s nothing that substitutes for Sante’s brand of random, one-off wittiness.
Like a few weeks ago when I asked him to model the scarf I knit for him so I could blog about it. We went outside in the morning before work and he fired off these beauties.
Like the duck face? I was laughing so hard and was stoked that not only was he OK with modeling but totally fine with me posting the pictures. This man rules. And my laughter doesn’t sound the same when he’s not around.
His smile. Apparently he’s heard it from more than just me, but this guy has a winning grin. It lights up my life, even when he’s laughing at me.
Or pulling a stocking over my head.
That smile hasn’t changed a bit. I’ve seen photos of him as a toddler and there it is. Adorable.
Bike talk. This came as a surprise to me, but I miss the incessant, mostly one-sided conversations about the merits of the 29ers and tubeless tires, what type of bike to ride in what race, and whether or not he should carry a pack on this ride. It’s no secret this man loves to ride his bicycle.
But it’s obvious he’s wearing off on me, because not only have I gone mountain biking, I now own more than one bike and am actually excited to hear about the new stuff he saw while he was away on his business trip. Because that’s bike related too. Love the man, love the bike, I guess.
So welcome home hunny and happy birthday. I’m excited to celebrate with you and am happy to have you to miss. May you (and I) be blessed with many years of smiles, jokes, sweets, warmth and bike riding.
I woke up feeling extra giddy this morning. The sun shone in the windows and I stretched toward it, already anticipating its love. I made brownies before 9 am. Today is special. Today Venus transit’s Earth.
Basically, everything is aligned in such a way that we see Venus pass in front of the sun. It’s not going to happen again for more than 100 years, so that in itself makes it pretty special. But what I’m really excited about is the sun’s energy passing through the planet on its way to us.
Venus governs relationships, arts, sex, beauty and more broadly, love. When the sun passes through it, its rays are filled with even more of those lovely qualities than normal.
Find out when it happens based on your location here. I guess what I’m trying to say, is get outside today. Soak up some love!
“What’s with Americans and their fascination with mail?” my girlfriend from Norway would ask. She’s since obliged and sends me postcards whenever she travels. So do my other friends. My refrigerator is covered in postcards.
When was the last time you received a hand written letter? It’s been awhile? Sick of junk mail? Well, I think it’s time to get out your stationery and write a note to one of your friends. And what a perfect time! Valentine’s Day is next week!
(SIDENOTE: My view of Valentine’s Day is similar to that of The Oatmeal: If you don’t like it, just act like it doesn’t exist. I’ve been single, married, or broken-hearted on this holiday, and every year I enjoy myself because I know that there’s no better way to celebrate it than to do something awesome for people I love, whether it’s my friends, my lover or myself.)
This isn’t a plea to save the mail. The Daily Show already took care of that for me.
This is a plea to start sending more of your actual energy to people instead of computer energy. I’m not saying email doesn’t have its place, but it’s hard to stay close to someone through a screen. Seeing someone’s handwriting along with the quirky spelling is way more fun than email.
While I’m not suggesting you send a Valentine to everyone you know, sending one to a person who could use your spirit near them is an act of love. Get in the spirit! Plus it costs about $.45 (or $1.05 internationally) to mail a letter. No need for fancy cards, although my dear friend The Oatmeal has some delightful ones.
Last night I saw some spirits in the hallway as I was reading before bed. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but it’s been awhile. As I lay in bed after the lamp when out, the dark places of my mind expanded and I started to get scared. Actually genuinely frightened.
For a minute I wanted to keep it to myself. I was embarrassed. But something inside me said that was stupid, and so I told Sante. He didn’t make fun of me. He didn’t try to talk me out of it. He just told me I was safe and asked if I wanted to switch sides of the bed so I could feel protected.
I’d often heard that love was the anecdote to fear, but I don’ t think I saw it so clearly as I did then.
Lately things have been different, and I don’t think I’m alone when I say my life is changing in a way I don’t feel I have control. (Yes, I know control is an illusion, but it’s often a pleasant one I entertain.) I am running my own business, pitching stories to magazines and trying to publish a book. I feel like this one right now:
The problem with this depiction is that I’m fully aware I’m about to walk off a cliff. And I’m scared. Of failure. Of success (which is just the fear of delayed failure). Of making mistakes. Of being ridiculed. Of looking like the fool.
Seriously, the fear is paralyzing me. I’ve told Sante all of this, and his love has definitely made a world of difference. It helps me blog for work, write magazine articles and edit my book. But I can’t expect him to do that for me every day. It’s an exhausting, if not impossible duty.
It’s time for a healthy dose of self-love, along with a stern talk to my inner critic. It’s turned ugly in my brain these days. And perhaps I need a little reminder from the Cult of Done.
Pretending you know what you’re doing is almost the same as knowing what you are doing, so just accept that you know what you’re doing even if you don’t and do it.
What kind of things are you afraid of? How do you overcome them? Do you find love really does conquer all fears?
The first time I heard his name, I knew something was going to happen between us.
I had been in my new home of Watsonville for about four hours and was enjoying my first chavella with my new house mate Bryan. A chavella is a Mexican drink made from beer, clam juice, wine and tomato juice garnished with shrimp. Yes, they are amazing and one of my favorite first memories of home.
He looks down at his phone and laughs. “It’s already started,” he says.
“What’s stared?” I ask.
“The questions. My friend Sante just sent me a text: ‘Quit holding out on us. Is she cute?’ ”
I laugh. Not that this guy wondered that. I get it. I’m new and that’s interesting. What I’m laughing at is that I just took the “red-eye” Greyhound bus up from L.A. I’m feeling pretty gritty. I need a few more showers and nights of sleep before I could pass as cute, as far as I’m concerned. But still, Bryan snaps a photo and sends it to his friend.
This is me before leaving L.A. Add eight hours of Greyhound bus and well, luckily, Sante never got the text.
Since this was in my man-eating phase, I’m pretty sure that the something that would happen between us would be that we’d go on a few dates, I’d keep my walls up while he fell for me and then I would stomp all over his heart. It was pretty much my M.O. at the time, and though I’m not proud of it, I broke quite a few guys’ hearts.
I met Sante a few days later when Bryan invited me to lunch with a few of his coworkers. They were going to Phil’s in Moss Landing, which is this fish joint that’s basically an overpriced tourist trap, but everybody’s been there. And Bryan figured I should probably check it off my list.
We arrived and ordered at the counter. I got fish and chips. Some of the other guys order lobster and appetizers. I sit down and am formally introduced to Sante for the first time. He’s sitting across the table from me. Not directly across from me, thank goodness.
I’m having a hard time looking at him, which is weird for me, because I have what some people call a staring problem. And generally when I find someone attractive (which I definitely felt with him), I have a habit of boring a hole into them, kind of fixating on them.
It’s kind of creepy actually. And it’s not just men but women and animals too. If I think you’re attractive, I just enjoy looking at you. I catch myself and have to remind myself that when I’m on the opposite end of this exchange, I get very annoyed.
I even had trouble looking with photos. This helped me NOT Facebook stalk him...too much.
At any rate, I’m having a hard time looking at this terribly attractive man, so I distract myself with the conversation at hand, which, as it always does with these guys, is completely inappropriate and I’m laughing out loud on several occasions. After an hour of boisterous exchange, we all pile into cars and head back to Watsonville.
There’s something that happens to you when you move to a new place (at least for me) in that you kind of forget that you’re going to see people again. At first you just feel like you’re on perpetual vacation and that you’ll be getting on a plane any moment and won’t ever see someone again.
I felt that way about Sante after that day. Well, it was nice to meet him, but I guess things weren’t supposed to happen between us. Like that one exchange was the only chance I had to get his phone number and get to know him.
So imagine my surprise when a few weeks later we meet again at the dirt track races. It was dirty, loud, we’d smuggled some whiskey into the stands and things were promising to be loads of fun. There were about twelve of us, most everyone from Bryan’s workplace.
Sante came to the track on his motorcycle, which to me was a HUGE deal because aside from moving across the continent, I had one goal that summer: Get on a motorcycle.
Now this goal was looking like it wasn’t going to happen, mostly because I didn’t know anyone with a motorcycle in California. So when I saw Sante with the bike, my first thought was about meeting my goal, which if you know anything about me, is kind of a driving factor. I love goals.
Never mind the fact that he’s in this motorcycle jacket looking all sexy. Never mind that for whatever reason, I’m a bit tongue-tied around him. And never mind that I could barely look at him. All of that left my head with the sight of knocking that off my list.
“Ooooo could you take me on a ride?” I asked.
“Yeah, we could probably do that,” he replied.
I put his phone number into my phone and ask how to spell his name. And then I ask his last name. It’s a habit from having multiple people in my phone with the same name. It’s frustrating. Plus, I like to know people’s last names.
This exchange takes place in front of everyone and somebody gives me a hard time about asking about a last name.
“What? You think you’re going to meet another Sante?”
Looking back on this, I smile at those words. Another Sante? Impossible. This guy is one in a gazillion.
Before we go on the motorcycle ride, Sante and I meet at the beach with a few friends. We’re chatting and he says everything I’m about to say. I’m not kidding.
I’m about to bring up Curb Your Enthusiasm and he brings it up. Are you serious? It’s maddening! I’m desperately trying to not be one of those “Oh, me too” girls, but he’s making it next to impossible because we have so much in common.
He drives me home and lets me smoke in his car. For some reason this is a big deal for me. He doesn’t smoke. Smoking is not at all OK, but he’s just so nonjudgmental about it. This I like, of course.
I bring up the motorcycle ride again and he’s a little vague about it. I implore him, letting him know how important it is to me, especially because it is one of my goals. He smiles and says he won’t bail on me because it would be so mean.
“It’d be like saying to a puppy: ‘You wanna go for a ride?’ and then walking away.”
That’s right folks. One of us supposed to be a dog in this situation. I am. I am the dog.
But it’s hard to be offended when the analogy is just so good. It’s the writer in me.
It took a few more weeks, but we did finally go on that ride. And then we hung out after the races one night. We kissed that night, but I didn’t want to get involved with my housemate’s friend, which he didn’t quite understand.
“Who do you date then?” he asked me later, when I explained it more. And I had no answer. Or rather, I didn’t want to tell him my answer.
I had spent all my time dating guys that didn’t match me. And didn’t match my criteria for a man. A while before I met Sante, I wrote a list of all the characteristics I’d like my man to have.
At that point, I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, but after swarms of alcoholic, drug addict and suspected murderer types, it seemed like a good idea to have something to strive for as opposed to settle for. Gotta have goals, right? Plus I met a really great guy while in the middle of my heart-breaking and a little light went on. Even though he wasn’t the right one, he had the recipe. Smart. Driven. He made me want to be better, and I liked that.
Sante matched my recipe. Smart. Ambitious. Funny. Good looking. Likes mushrooms and onions. Wants to be healthy. Cares about the environment. Cares about politics without being a zealot. Loves to be outside. Likes me for me. Active. Likes to travel. Doesn’t want kids. Open minded. Kind.
There’s more on the list, but really, I got pretty specific. And he matched. And that was a little scary at first, I guess, because I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. But really, did I think I was going to find another Sante?
I remember the night I realized it. Sante and I had had one of our first actual dates. But he was more leery of us as a couple than I was. I mean, c’mon, I was a self-proclaimed man-eater and a bit wild. I don’t blame him.
I was out with some friends and Sante was out of town. There was this dude chatting with me who was hitting on me pretty hard. He was cute and kinda interesting, so I was having fun with it, flirting.
But after awhile, I caught myself thinking This isn’t going to go anywhere. Why would I date this guy if it might mess things up with Sante. He’s so not worth it.
Plus this dude spoke with a French accent, which meant I couldn’t take him seriously at all. All I could think of was the French chef from The Little Mermaid.
Man eater tamed.
After dating for a few months it became clear that he had things I didn’t even think to put on the list. That is the best part.
I love that he loves the moon as much as me. I adore that he will cheer with me for the chipmunks crossing the street. He takes me camping in the mountains all the time. He loves to kiss me (His coworkers asked if we had a quota to fill each day when they saw us say good bye one morning). He has a motorcycle. We like the same kind of beer. He doesn’t eat dairy: I’m allergic and he’s intolerant. Match made in heaven?
Abso-frickin-lutely.
It was two years ago we started dating and thirty years ago Sante was born. I’m so happy for his existence. It’s one of my favorite birthdays to celebrate. Sante makes me want to be a better human being, which is one of the most important qualities you can have in a friend or mate.
One of my best friends Johanna has said some of the most quotable things. Just today I was going through a journal and found a sentence from her: “The recession has hit my sex life.” She always say things that make you think twice.
One thing in particular that has stuck with me she’s said is, “Perfect is boring.”
In theory, I agree. But it was always such an abstract concept for me. In the past year or so, I’ve also been very into the Cult of Done, which has saved me hours of agonizing over my work as a writer and artist.
If you’ll notice, No. 8 says “Laugh at perfection. It’s boring and keeps you from being done.” I definitely agree, but being the perfectionist that I am, it was still hard to accept. Why is perfection boring?
It wasn’t until this weekend when I was admiring the empty pages of my journal that I finally got it. To me, the empty page beckons me. It’s beautiful. Perfect, even.
Unmarked. No mistakes. Just clean and crisp, ready for anything. I even said the word outloud. “Perfect.”
Then I thought, “Yeah but how long would this hold your attention? Is it really all that exciting? Nope. Even as a writer, I can only stare at a blank page for so long before I long to mar it with my madness.
I wrote all over the pages and then looked at them. Mistakes. Ink smeared. But captivating.
What I came to realize finally when I was able to conceptualize it, is that perfection is not only boring, it’s fleeting. You can’t hold onto it. It really doesn’t exist for more than a few moments. Then it makes way for mistakes, fantastic stories, and love.
As much as I enjoy the feeling of crossing everything off of my to-do list (or as I like to call it, my DONE list) and hitting all the marks on my insanely high list of expectations, the feeling doesn’t last. It’s a cheap high, really.
Because inevitably I will trade in my visit to the gym for a few hours at the beach or skip my early morning writing session in order to read my book in bed. I can’t hold onto that feeling of perfection any more than I can leave a piece of paper blank.
Coincidentally, I’ve been introduced to wabi sabi, which is the art of loving the imperfections in life and embracing authenticity. We’ll see how it goes. It’s not that I want to banish my inner-perfectionist, I just want to take her down a notch, you know?
What about you? Are you a perfectionist? Do you embrace it or are you trying to balance it?
Although I’m not a particularly religious person, I usually give something up for Lent. I’m not really sure why. I guess I like the idea of doing something JC did. I’m a big fan.
Generally I give something up that won’t get in my way too much. One year I gave up McDonalds. Another year: television.
I know, I know. Perhaps I’m missing the point of Lent, but based on Catholicism and much of Christianity as it’s practiced these days, isn’t it all pretty much about making yourself uncomfortable and unhappy?
Why should Lent be the only time you’re cheerless? Let’s spread that around a bit. Misery, after all, is always entertaining house guests.
This didn’t dawn on me until I decided on a whim to give up something that might be more difficult to stop: being cruel to myself. I decided to give up making myself unhappy for Lent.
We all have our inner critics roaming around in our brains, our guts and occasionally even our voice boxes. Sometimes they work for good, keeping us out of trouble.
You probably shouldn’t eat all the pastries. Sharing is caring, after all.
But mostly, and especially if you grew up in a Baptist, Catholic or Jewish home, they succeed at making you feel bad about yourself for pretty much anything you do. You work in a corporate job, then you’re a sell-out. You’re an artist living paycheck to paycheck: you’re worthless. You can’t win, really.
So in the true spirit of Lent, I gave up something that was difficult for me — something that I relied on pretty much every day. I’m talking no matter what I do, I don’t allow myself to feel bad about it. I don’t listen to my inner critic. And I talk back.
I laugh at it when it tells me I look terrible. I look in the mirror and blow myself kisses.
I scoff when it says I’m an alcoholic for drinking that second glass of wine. JC certainly had no problems with the stuff. (I love the water into wine miracle. Frickin’ genius.)
I kick its ass when it tells me I’m no good and haven’t done a thing with my life. Then I walk into my job at a non-profit organization and kick some ass.
Where did this inner critic come from? Why on the Goddess’ green earth would I say these things about myself?
I have a hunch that it came from years of living in a repressed environment that said I shouldn’t be proud, or boast, or even talk about my success. What I should do is be better. Smarter. Prettier. Nicer. Perfect.
I’m sick of parents using religion to destroy young minds.
I’m tired of people who say they follow the doctrine of a man who said this:
Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.
Doing this:
Children can understand when something is wrong, but their parents are their gods. If you tell them they’re mistaken enough times, they split into pieces and lose touch with their soul, with their truth.
But the one thing I think we all have in common is that we pray for someone like Jesus Christ to come to Earth. I would love to see someone stand in front of these people in their temples and turn their money-changing tables over.
While there are plenty of people accusing the church of covering up sexual abuse, I think this type of tyranny is child abuse. No one should have to suffer this kind of assault on their soul.
I encourage all those who are engaged in this warfare against their children to stop. It probably won’t be easy because it’s such a habit, but it’s also a pattern. Most likely, you were abused like this as a child yourself.
It may be necessary to seek counseling. Don’t be ashamed. Be proud that you can change. Accept love and tolerance as Jesus would, instead of spitting the words out like they’re some sort of curse.
I believe that anyone can change and evolve upward, toward the soul’s natural tendency of light. It’s tough when you spend years so far removed from it. It may feel unnatural, or even evil. I know it took me a few weeks to get reacquainted with mine.
For those who take my challenge to heart, I pray for you. Change is difficult, but it is attainable. For those who scoff at my words, I love you as Jesus does. Just don’t expect me to be your friend. I gave that up for Lent.
