Politically speaking ...

Alright, people. Prepare to glimpse a rare and timid creature: a political Abby soap box. Don't blink – you might miss it. But now you are warned.

I despise politics. Hearing about them makes me angry and crazy. For most of my life I have excused myself from political involvement by cynically and naively assuming: A. Whatever happens in Congress is so saturated in red tape and bombastics that it can't really make much difference for good or ill, and B. There are enough people who do have passionate political opinions that they won't let it get too bad anyhow. (I've also been known to suppose anyone possessed of a strong political opinion to be short-sighted and worth avoiding.) I have diplomatically categorized myself as “moderate,” and at times I've even had some pretty liberal leanings. Mostly I cocooned myself in the realm of artsy pursuits and quiet idealism, thinking I had no mind for the mundane and gritty reality of the world in which I live.

But things have changed for me in the last few years – I have a family and a little girl, which means the future of her native land is something I now worry about. At times I feel an oppressive moral obligation to do something about it, because cynicism and apathy are luxuries I can no longer afford. For some months now I've been waking up almost in a cold sweat over the upcoming election. This has never – ever – happened to me before. I'm hoping getting this out will restore some peace of mind with the delusion that I've now “done something”; I will now therefore proceed to afflict you with my political concerns. Don't worry – I'm not a political person, and this will probably never happen again.

The first issue is a tricky one - global warming, or climate change, as they call it now. I came to my own conclusions in high school (not since my marriage, as some might think), through my own study and reflection. I do believe there is some change being felt on a global level, but I'm not convinced it's because of man-made greenhouse gasses. In all honesty, I think it's a bit presumptuous to think we and our little anthill cities have that much influence over Mother Nature. I believe in being a good steward over what I am given, because the earth is glorious, continually delighting us with fleeting and delicate beauties. One of my favorite quotes about our relationship to the earth is from Brigham Young: “There is enough and to spare, but woe to him that wastes anything.” There is a lot a man or woman can do to make their home environment beautiful and efficient, but I have trouble with the idea that every footprint we leave or breath we exhale irreparably damages the global ecosystem, and that we'll all be dry and crispy by 2050. For one thing, astronomical data shows that the sun is going through something of a warm spell, which happens about every 1,000 years – and there's evidence of similar trends happening on other planets in the solar system. This is not the first time this has happened either. There's evidence that the planet overall was warmer in medieval times than it is now; they've found remnants of vineyards in Scotland, for instance. Additionally, geological data shows that warmer is good, and that all life, including humans, have thrived during warmer periods. It's periods of extreme cold that have caused mass extinctions and stuff. And I can't think where people get the idea that Mother Nature is fragile and breakable, like a little old lady about to expire from a little second-hand smoke. We're talking about the same lady who lit up some pretty impressive cigars in Iceland a couple of years back – anyone who watched footage of the volcanic activity over there will have been as awestruck as me. Trillions of tons of ash and toxic gases were released into the atmosphere in a matter of days or weeks – that that's more than we've done in recorded history. Also, anyone flying over the expanses of empty space between cities even in densely populated areas of the world may question the notion that we are that big and powerful here. Along with those evidences is my personal belief that God is still in charge, and although He has allowed us to make some phenomenally disastrous – and destructive – mistakes over the course of human history, I doubt He would build the planet with a self-destruct button we could press.

The other thing happened just before the 2008 elections. I remember watching some of the political debates and speeches, and feeling really uneasy about Obama. I couldn't figure out what he was trying to do exactly, and he hadn't done anything that could tell me whether or not he would make a good president. He sounded good, talking about major changes and all, but he was, as they say, a blank slate. The more I listened to him, the more uneasy I became. As a result, I voted for McCain, even though he was just plain embarrassing. I just didn't feel as creepified about him as I did about Obama. And I'm afraid that feeling has only worsened. He's done everything he set out to do – everything he wanted to, and I'm really not convinced that's been anything but bad. I know the media loves him, but I've always been a little leery of what the media loves. Mitt Romney gives me some hope, even though he's not my first choice as Obama's replacement (I would have voted for Rick Santorum if he were still in the running) but there's no question I would pick him a thousand times over our current president. If elected for another term, Obama will destroy us. Romney may not be able to save us at this point, but with him at least there's some hope.

For the record, I don't really agree with either the Democratic or Republican parties. I think they both have some good points and some bad points, but both are incomplete. Personally, (meaning this is a self-indulgent and rather irrelevant note) if I were president (heaven forbid), one of the first things I would do would be to put the 800+ pages of tax code through a shredder, and level a 15% flat tax across the board. Secondly, I think lawmaking should be happening from elected officials, not from the bench. The judicial system is supposed to make sure existing laws are upheld, not make new ones we don't get a chance to vote on. Thirdly, I think lawmakers should support the family as the basic, fundamental unit of society, like the cells that make up the human body. Like our cells when exposed to too much radiation – if the family disintegrates, our society and nation – well, basically, we're toast. I do believe that simpler and smaller government is better, and that lawmaking in government, private organizations, and families should be done with restraint, common sense, wisdom, and compassion.

Almost done, folks. Stick with me for one more paragraph....

And the last thing: when did it become non-politically correct to be patriotic? During a trip this summer, driving through some beautiful scenery, we passed a long driveway (to a ranch, I assume) lined on either side with American flags waving in the wind. As we passed it, somebody in the car said sarcastically, “We're patriotic and you'll like it!” Others laughed. I was a little stunned. What's wrong with patriotism now? Why is it acceptable and even smiled upon for Americans to hate America? Don't get me wrong; she's got some serious issues, but how is our apathy and cynicism going to make it better? I was sad and deeply troubled to think that even these people, who are more sheltered from the media than almost anyone else I've ever known, have been inculcated with the disturbingly fashionable notion that America is bad.

Anyhow. There you have it, for what it's worth. I've said my piece. Now it's time for a snack.

(End note: After glancing over the rest of this old blog, I see an awful lot more soap-box sightings than I thought. So this is where they've been hiding.)

Declaring Independence for Feet

So I was looking through some old highschool documents, and came across this jewel. Don't remember what the assignment was.

Independence from the Tyranny of Shoes

When, in the course of events, it becomes necessary for one’s feet to dissolve the bands by which they are bound, one must detail explicitly and in all humility the purpose thereof, thereby that they might attain an understanding from all other creatures doomed slaves to the imprisonments of footwear.

We hold these principles to be true and living truths; that all feet are naturally entitled to freedom from oppression, that to reach one’s full potential one’s feet must be endowed with the powers of flight and physical freedom from the jealous powers of foot imprisonments. The crimes of this principle of fashion are as follows:

These shoes have bound the feet of all people, be it man, woman, or child, relentlessly for millennia.

When in capricious spite, they inflict such punishments on the feet as blisters, bunions, and so forth.

They have blunted the foot’s sense of touch and have therefore caused some to stumble or tread
upon some unsuspecting creature.

They have monopolized the fashion industry and instigated such personal expression-limiting rules as “all socks must match” and “shoelaces must always be tied the same way every time”.

They dull the pleasurable sensations such as walking through dewy grass or splashing through a stream.

They have insinuated their petty creeds into the public laws, such as “no shirt, no shoes, no service.”

They have made it difficult to dance when one feels the urge to boogie.

They make one’s feet clumsy and impede grace.

They have made it easier for one to inflict damage on his brother (i.e. kicking and so forth).

They impede the foot from growing to its full potential.

They have at this time inserted themselves into the public economy and dominate all public places from the ankles downward.

In every stage of these oppressions our feet have remained docile and have tried to reconcile our comfort with our “need” for the “protection” of our feet from evils such as thorns, rocks, and hot pavement. Many in protest have even removed the offending articles from their feet in hopes of freeing their pleading toes from the absolute tyranny of footwear, but inevitably, when the person in question must go out into the world, the shoes are forced back on the feet.

We, Therefore, the representatives of the united feet of Earth, declare that the world’s feet ought to be and are free and independent feet, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the tyrannical shoe. We declare that as free and independent feet, they will have the power to run, jump, dance, and frolic unencumbered by the sinister forces of footwear. And, for the support of this declaration, we pledge to each other and to our feet that we will resist the powers of shoes and forever be, free feet.

if we can just ... get ... through... this one.

I’ll hang on grab onto your feet
Someone else holds tied to my shoelaces
When their trouser leg tears, runs and stops at the seam to keep us
dangled together
Until help finds us here

Terrifying best, days of our lives
We’re hanging on the best days of our lives
No two ways about it, best days of our lives
They’re coming right up, if we can just get through this one.

- (Imogen Heap, "Not now but soon")

content

I feel imperviously content; I feel like everything is in its right place, and that I am on the right track, and that everything is going to be alright, no matter what happens. Whatever happens. I am grateful to the Lord for that kind of peace. It clears the mind and the eyes, which is good, because I have a lot to do. And for now, I am perfectly capable of doing it alone, and that's fine. I have indeed been blessed, and it's been a good day, and once again, I am free and clear, full-weight free. And I'm not worried about anything, really. I'm not ecstatic or anything, just not bothered. And that's okay.

You walk along the sand with a fist in the air, from which a stream of sand falls like a curtain. The fist is small, frail, but the sand doesn't stop, and the curtain falls behind you like a rainstorm, an iron curtain.

You are wearing the spike coat, and the long red-tipped, black and white striped spines flow down your back like the raised hackles of a wolf.

You will never surrender, because you are home now, and the sea knows it. The sea, and only the sea, understands.

You breathe the weight of wet salt, which hardens and strengthens your bones, and the voices of your shadow echo and echo and echo in the relentless surf. The sky is white, a silent blank wet canvas, and the sand under your feet is smooth as the back of a seal, firm as stone.

Around you are friends. The Four whirl like dervishes in their bright round robes, so colorful that they are almost incandescent: Sun-and-Starlight whirls in his broad sun/moon mask, his flowing twilight robe with the embroidered silver stars, his outstretched hands painted gold.

Leaves-of-Trees wears her copper and gold crown, a wreath of oak and maple, and her deep forest green robe skims the sand as she turns, its hem of copper and gold-veined leaves, her hands and eyelids painted copper.

Flames-of-Fire burns. Her long flame-colored veil shimmers as if the sun were on it, and the sand under her thin white feet glows red as coals.

Ice-and-Thunder spins like a tornado, his light silver and grey robes flashing electric diamond glints, his hands and face and hood painted dark charcoal grey, almost black, although his eyes are so pale and light that they are electric, catching and violently reflecting any hint of light.

You throw the sand into the air, throw your head back, and scream.

You move beyond the Four. Way out to sea you can sea the silhouettes of the Sunbearers. It is day, but they are sleeping, their great delicate forms folded into the soft grey horizon. They have let the sun loose today, and he has gone, pillowing his keepers in the seamless silent clouds.

The sea roars. You turn and run at it and roar back, shaking a long iron spear over your head, carving the mist like butter, although unlike butter, the mist drifts back and heals, leaving no trace of the spear. You will fight tonight, and the sea will be red, and knows it, and is apprehensive.

You are exhausted. The spike coat weighs on your back like the inhabitants of a great city. You walk in your spines, on the hard fine sand, and you lower your spear. You walk, and you lower your head. You walk, and lower your hands, and the spines drag fine lines in the smooth back of the sea seal. The sun is dead. You walk, and fall to your knees, onto your elbows, and as the spear rusts away into the wet sand, you weep. The gulls hear, and cry out to the sea, which understands. Great drops fall from your face, great salty drops of sea. The sand, already wet, doesn't notice. The sea sees, and the sea, and only the sea, understands.

parable of the grapevine (although there probably already is one)

These Northwestern summer nights are perfect -- cool and soft and limpid, tranquil and dark. I went outside last night at dusk because I could see a breeze through the window and needed to quiet for a moment the thinking frenzy I've been spinning circles in over the last month. I found the swing in the big pine between our house and the neighbors's and swung into the breeze, leaning back to watch the branches whirl silently overhead. It helped, until I spun the swing right back into my mind-trap, got mad, got off, and kicked the swing. Tromped through the ivy and into the backyard, where I dusted off an old wicker chair and sat for nearly an hour under the pergola, which supports our last remaining grapevine. Over me and the pergola and the grapevine loomed a giant oak from the back-neighbors yard, swaying and fluttering gracefully against the deep Parrish blue sky. I looked up at the grapevine, which was trying to tell me something.

One of its long green tendrils stretched out from the pergola over my head, and i wondered what it was reaching for, since the nearest stable object was still a good 12 feet away. I watched it reaching out hopefully, putting out tiny new leaves and feelers that ended up curling together around nothing, just hanging there. There were countless other young tendrils doing the same thing, poking out from all sides of the pergola in all directions. Some had connected, curling tightly around each other, creating points of strength, of reinforcement. All of these tendrils, however, could only stretch out so far from the pillars and the pergola before dropping under their own weight. Mostly they didn't, I assume because they knew when to quit.

There was one old main branch, and all it grew entwined around and was supported by the pergola. On top of the pergola (can you tell I like the word pergola?) grew most of the broad green sun-soaking leaves, quite beautiful and healthy and young, and the tendrils. From the underside of the pergola hung a bunch of dead black branches and broken tendrils, old dead matter from years gone by, hidden artfully under the living and seemingly perfect outer covering of fresh leaves.

It occurred to me that without constantly reaching and stretching its tendrils and feelers out into thin air, even without having anything to cling to, the grapevine wouldn't grow. Even though it didn't reach anything solid, the reaching tendril grew, and expanded, beautified, and in its own small way, strengthened the whole vine. I also saw that without the stability of the pergola, the grapevine would never have gotten so big, so healthy, so beautiful, fruitful, or useful. The one branch, although it provided life to the whole plant, couldn't possibly support its own weight, and would've trailed haplessly along the ground. And although it hid all that old dead matter so artfully, I wondered whether it would be healthier or more fruitful if the lingering rotten things were pruned away. And I wondered then what would happen if even most of the living green stuff were pruned ruthlessly away - what would the grapevine do? The answer of course is simple: put out those little tendrils in faith and trust and grow back, every time.

Life applications? I think so. I said a little prayer, smiled, and went back inside.

omega dog

Something's wrong, and I can't quite figure it out. I feel like I'm hanging out on the edge of spontaneous combustion. I'm angry. I don't get angry. It's like oil on a freshwater lake - I'll get frustrated, maybe the skin of oil on top will bubble and ignite once in awhile, but it never lasts very long or goes very deep. But not now - I feel like a chunk of water-logged rocket fuel. Dry me out and I could start a war. I could end a war. A good hour of hand-to-hand combat might help. I'd lose of course, but it would be good for me. If I won, I wouldn't know what to do. It would go against the laws of history and nature, and it would make it worse. If I lost, it would put me back in my place and I would remember that no, I don't have enough backing logically, politically, or materially, to start a war. I'd close my eyes, bruised, and ask myself why it has to take pain to teach me what I really am and what I'm here for. And humility and humiliation would push me back into the groove of peace.

I just got back from a lovely trip to Italy with true friends, I'm chillin at home in my beloved Northwest, with my family, the most loving and validating people in my life. I have music again, and played with Libby and the kitty and the beardies this morning, and all should be better than it's been in months. So much for clarity. So that in itself is frustrating.

Maybe it's just persistent old habits. I can't express in words how much I hate old shadows, or how hard it is to get rid of them when you're in their old stomping grounds. But enough of that. No excuses. Dadgummit, it all just comes back to me, and I have to remind myself that at times like this it's silly to look for external solutions to internal problems. Isn't it?

Why the heck am I writing this? I probably shouldn't post it. Hang it all, maybe I will.