Re-visiting the Past....

 Not long ago I posted about feeling safe. Or more to the point, not feeling safe. And the knot that creates in my stomach. And so I've been over-thinking a whole lotta schtuff from the past and generalized observations about American culture/society in general. To be honest, I don't know if this stuff is limited to, because of, or even influenced by the 'American' part of the culture or not. I've never been submerged in any other culture. 

But something that chaps my hide more and more as I age is the whole objectification of women. I know that in general (you) meaning a generalized MOST of the male population, and specifically NOT some of my dearest, nearest friends who are surprisingly enlightened (God bless your souls).... I know you don't MEAN any harm by objectifying women. nice boobs. nice ass. let me see your cleavage. "its meant as a compliment, really...." Yeah. Well, it's not a compliment. I have worked super hard on myself. Not showing my crazy to the world, not acting on every impulse I have, not being too proud to admit failure, or at least certain places where I need to improve. But my genes. I was just born with them. I am not in control of my cup size in any natural sense. And what if took control of my cup size? What if I took my destiny into my own hands and went under the knife and came out a B cup. You know, no-bra size. And then all you bitches that said how lucky I was to have back pain and uncivilized (and unsolicited) societal pain from being a large breasted woman (there, I just came right out and BREAST... not boobs, not knockers, not ta-tas, not titties), well, then the joke would be on you because I would have achieved something I covet. No-bra status. What I wouldn't give to have that option. But I'm no more in control (without the help of a surgeon) of my cup size than you are, you who are busy coveting and objectifying and telling me how fortunate I am to have pain (physically) and sorrow (not so much physically) of oversized fluffy marshmallow boobs. That's what I call them when they billow out of whatever size bra I put them into. There's almost always some piece of me marshmallowing out of the holder it was intended for. I would love to have my way with the people who design these articles of clothing that do very little to support and entrap my societal pariahs. You know, the assumption is (one of many), that I cannot be very intelligent since all that physical substance went into my chest, the God that made me wasn't smart enough to leave some matter for the brain area as well. 

What's my point? I'm not sure I have one. I have many. But trying to sum it up in a singular purpose? Maybe that it just really isn't right or wrong, sexy or unsexy, to have large or small breasts. That my worth and my intelligence are not something you can see without getting to know me. I'm not more American, more Playboy Bunny, more Culturally-Iconic-Sex-Symbol because my genetics endowed me with more chest that what I ever wanted. 

I'm pretty smart. I just wish people could see it. I am not my body. And... another post entirely... I am NOT dependent on a filter-system to make me smarter either. Sometimes (and only sometimes) I am sorry that I don't have a filter, but that is also not an indicator of intelligence or stupidity. It is just an indicator that I'm still learning impulse control and that as an intelligent person, I still have the option to learn more. and more. 

The Pit in my Stomach

 One thing on my mind is the objectification of women. Specifically, women's body parts. Ass. Boobs. ass... you know. And I've blogged about this before, but the whole, "you must have liked it...." spiel. Sex and sexuality are very confusing in that sexual touch does feel good. Even when it doesn't. So even though some touch gives me a knot in the pit of my stomach and a nauseated feeling that I might consider puking to express my emotions that confuse me so much, I also encounter a level of okay-ness and pleasure. And I have to decide which is the emotion I am going to value. 

Well, of course, it's more complicated than that. Definitely. One of my friends was talking to me about an eligible bachelor we know. She said, "he's a catch." I said, "only if I want to feel like a prostitute." Which spurred a conversation about sex as a simple transaction, just part of the business of life. And there might be a profound truth there. I think it's more about what a person can live with.

I am finding that I can't live too far outside the bounds of what I am comfortable with. I mean, I have done this. Many times. Year after year. Relationship after relationship. But the more I'm okay with being alone (and I'm there, finally, I'm more than okay with this), the more I can't really abide the pit in my stomach. I guess the bigger thing is this: I want the big win. I want love and freedom. I don't want to cheat or step outside the social constraints of what is acceptable sexually in a monogamous relationship. But I want to live my little Hippie Chick Life being the one solely in charge of my body and when I give and what I give and not have it taken without permission. I want the ultimate in trust and respect. Trust that I won't trample your trust and companionship with my selfishness. And respect that I know what I am a ready for and not ready for. 

I'm angry and confused with myself today. Why can I easily put this all out here for the world to see, but I'm terrified of just having the conversation in real life? It's anxiety producing. I know part of it. You, my dear readership, are a captive audience. Not really. You are free to stop reading at any given moment. But the thing is, you can rant at my writings, but you are not interrupting the flow. The words have already poured from my being to the space of this blog and I had complete and total freedom to use the words I wanted and to edit and to purge and dump. For this, I love writing. Writing has gotten me into trouble a plenty of times. "Why didn't you just talk to me? I read your letter and I feel attacked and ambushed." Talking terrifies me. I think I will choose it because I want what happens when people talk to each other. I want to learn to build trust and intimacy. I want to learn give and take. In a way that doesn't leave me with a stomach ache. I'm not sure how to do this. But I want it. Graceful or awkward. I want it. More will be revealed...

What day is this again?!

 The days run together. The days. The nights. The weekends. the weekdays. What's what and all that. Is it Sunday or Monday? Why is there no mail today? Oh yeah, it's Sunday. How come no one answers my call? Oh yeah, because most businesses only man the phones M-F, and it's Saturday. and so on and so forth. Today, being Veteran's Day and Friday, will probably really throw me off. No mail today. No banks today. Only today is not the weekend, but just darn close to it, so repeat this scenario for the next 2 days as well. 

This is a joy of being home. Being home all. the. time. I don't know if you all will remember but the borrowed car we were driving is now better left undriven. (Surely that's a word...). I can't tell you definitively that the problem is a head gasket, but it sure presented that way. I'm savvy enough to know that driving it is a BIG no-no in such a state. ugh. 

These things are related in that when you don't have a car, you just kind of languish. The days on the calendar don't mean much except for when you have a ride to somewhere or something. Today, we have an appointment this afternoon and a ride (hallelujah), and therefore it's important to know that today is Friday. But the next two days being weekend days will not be scheduled and once again, we'll just be out here in paradise without wheels and things will start to blend into each other then. 

Apparently my disability case is moving. Some professionals are getting paperwork. That is a good sign. I'm so tired of being in limbo. And I'm tired of being discouraged. So I'm praying for the people assigned to my case and that the right answer will come to pass sooner rather than later since I've already been here for a year. 

Blogging feels random and without direction, much like the rest of me lately. Directionlessness is a difficult place to live. I find myself counting down the hours until I can go to bed. Ironically enough, bed is not blissful now either. There's the waking and not being able to fall back to sleep. And there's the waking early with a drive to get up and make cards. The waking and feeling motivated are not bad in and of themselves, it is just when it's coupled with too little restful nighttime sleeping. 

But there's much to rejoice about really. Did you know..... someone paid my energy bill again? Yep. Let me tell you, this does more for my tired soul than you can possibly know. I feel loved. I feel important/cared about/for. And I feel safe. Like God is just proving what I say about knowing that He has always taken care of us and that He's NOT going to drop me on my ass now. Amen. So if you're the one, thank you. It means SO much to us. And if you're not the one, thank God with us for angels among us gifting ordinary (needy) people like me with electricity and a deep sense of love and care. It's a big deal and I'm grateful and asking you all to be grateful with me. thanks.

I'm sitting here under a blanket typing in the house that currently already has a bit of a chill to it. I'm worried. Tonight is supposed to be cold. 20º F. And that is bearable. We are in Kansas after all. But it's not desirable since we have no source of heat.  I mean, we are well stocked on little plug in heaters.... yeehaw. But I know I don't need to worry. Right? Hence the previous paragraph. And a little thing called a power greater than myself that takes care of me all the time, like the one I call God. Sometimes I call God... Good. Good takes care of me when I can't. And Good (God) will continue this trend. The Bible says that I should cast all my cares onto him and he will take care of me. So that's the plan. Casting now. Worry-free living ahead. The thing with that is that I'm a fast-forgetter. I get to grow myself in discipline and ask for God to take away my Worry and fear again tomorrow and again and again and again. But I'm okay with that as long as I remember to do it. Because God is good (see how I did that there), and will take care of me for as many todays as I ask. All I have to do is humble myself and ask. And how hard can that be. Right?! 

For the love of Ducks....

 Lately the blog feels like work. just more of the blah, blah, blah.... Which is in and of itself depressing. And there's a low-level of depression accompanying this, daily melancholy. All. Day. Long. Melancholy is tiring. 

But there is always something more, something better, some sort of reckoning with gratitude. Righting the sideways that is melancholy and putting my life into an orderly space of gratitude. It happens. Often. Overwhelmingly. And sometimes I'm so deeply entrenched in the melancholy that I don't acknowledge the goodness. The goodness in my life that makes me weepy and emotional almost on a daily basis. 

So I have written at least briefly about the vision that Jadyn and I are growing about the Hippie Chick Farm. Why couldn't we develop this into a place that sustains us? With art or birds or whatever. Why couldn't it work? You know, the old "Why" vs "Why not." Why do we think this could be possible? Well, Why not... 

I have been stuck on how we "need" some chickens. Because predators and illness completely wiped us out. And we have a Roo and no hens. I seem to think that if I am going to define this little homestead as a farm, we need to have chickens. J keeps reminding me that we are duck people. We sort of love ducks. Only without the sort of.  We just love ducks. And the damn raccoons took too many ducks as well as wiping out our chickens. But we're slowly building our flock again. Our local Tractor Supply had two lone ducks that needed to come home with us. They needed us. So we added them to our backroom birds and about a week ago we got to move them outside. I guess it was a week and a half ago, because they moved outside so the new babies could move in. My friend just messaged me and said, "I knew you were trying to re-build your flock so I picked these up at Atwoods...." So we have back room ducks again. or still. It seemed to me to be a sign. Something that said, "God loves you and wants you to be happy, here are some ducks." And also, "don't worry, you are on the right path, the path where you grow your little farm and it loves you back...." Thanks God. 

Yesterday afternoon I was snoozing. This new thing of waking up at dawn and being awake and starting my day leads to some mid-day drowsiness. Anyway... I'm interrupted by the phone. Caller ID tells me it is my friend, so I shake myself awake and try to pretend I wasn't just sleeping my day away. She says, "some lady just called me and wanted to know if I knew anyone who rescues ducks, do you want a couple ducks?" Of course. So they are supposed to be Pekins. They seem small to me to be Pekin ducks but maybe they are just too young. I don't know. They are adorable and were not in a good situation so now they will be fed and loved and get to free range every day. Not yet. Right now they are in the pen in the barn and will go back in the dog crate that is in the duck/goose pen when the rest of the free-rangers come home for night. This gets everyone used to each other. Less picking on them that way. But the big ole Goose will probably have to exert some bullish behaviors anyway. But seriously, this helps a lot with those behaviors. Introducing them in a more isolated environment.

But anyway, back to the whole Hippie Chick Farm thing and encouragement vs. discouragement, ebb and flow and all that good jazz. The two new ducks makes my heart happy. Of course. They make me feel as though things are right in the world. Another sign. Because the one who is greater than me, the one I call God, knew I needed a sign. 

Ahhhh. Thanks God. Because encouraged wanes quickly. And more is always needed. But today I will remember that we are on a right path, the universe told me so.