Everyone has them...

 You know the saying, about opinions and assholes. Right? 

My blog is where I dump my opinion: good, bad, ugly, short-sighted or whatnot. Sometimes my blog stinks. But my mind is cleared of gibberish and rubble. 

Prayer vs. Policy-change. Is this really the only option? One or the other? Enough thoughts and prayers I have read over and over and over. But this policy change isn't even about schools! It's about gun control. Let's be honest. And that is a whole other rant. I mean, I am not opposed to some changes in the gun laws. What kind of protection OR hunting, or caring for your family involves a fully or even semi automatic weapon? Let's be honest. If an intruder comes to my house and I meet them with a double barrel shotgun, they will not come back. Well, unless they have a weapon of the automatic or semi-automatic persuasion. And then they will be far quicker to unload that thing than any chance I will have at taking them out. Neither scenario makes me think I need a bigger gun. I'm just a girl who lives in the country trying to raise a few animals and live off the land. I don't need a bigger gun. 

I don't need the government or anyone taking away said gun either. But if we are talking "policy change," let's talk about eliminating or seriously crippling the automatic weapon industry. Aside from military warfare, there is just no reason for it. 

What am I saying?! I guess I'm saying I'm on both sides of the whole "policy change" rhetoric. But shouting policy change in the midst of this tragedy only cheapens the lives of the children who died this week. The same as shouting about my "right to bear arms" does. So what does that leave? Thoughts and prayers. I can believe in policy change and still pray. I can still want healing and a salve of some sort for the pain of those who are suffering. I think that as we take a moment and breathe and calm our weary souls, we need to be aware and not be lulled into nothingness. That is what all the hubbub is about, right? We use our thoughts and prayers and pretty soon nobody cares about what happens all-too-often in this country of ours. And that is what we need to avoid. Agreed. But we also need to pause and look at the hurting and take a moment to pray for their hurt and devastation.

Prayer is the greatest tool we have. It can move mountains. It can move the policy makers that make up those mountains. Prayer is powerful for what it can do to the energy we send out of our heart and soul. Prayer is powerful for the change that it initiates inside of us. 

The day will never come for me that I say "enough thoughts and prayers". What I see is something that needs more. Prayer AND policy change. Not prayer OR policy change. 

If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land. 2 Chronicles 7:14

P.S. Some conspiracy theorists that I know and love worry about Big Brother who is always listening and watching and waiting to take away my guns. So here's my disclaimer, I have a shotgun on my wish list. I do. But I own a .380 hand gun. And I guess if we're being about full disclosure, it is a semi-automatic gun. But I'm just putting it out there.... I don't currently have that shotgun I was writing about. (Not to say that one day I won't, because right now I still have that choice and freedom). I am not the marksman my Dad was, but I still wouldn't break in to my house. Just sayin'

Anger. And beneath the Anger

 I'm 11 days post-surgery with a total left-knee replacement.  And one of the many epiphanies I've had today is that I'm bored. I am so tired of feeling like I wish I felt different! I wish I had less pain, I wish I were high as a kite and knocked out on oxy because it hurts less. I wish I could just take enough ibuprofen and tylenol to keep a steady pain relief base, but they make me nauseated and light headed and fuck with my stomach. Oops. I tried to type "mess with my stomach" and look what happened. I think that is because of the underlying rage. Is the rage from the pain or from the pain relief? Or from the cabin fever? Or the frustration that I can't move freely to take care of my little farm the way I want to?! Maybe the rage is a thinly veiled cover for Frustration. On a primal level. I have let out more primal screams today than I have in the entire time I have known what that means or that it has healing qualities. 

As I sit here, thinking about my constant rage against the machine, rage against biology, rage against my genes; I think about how I've always said that I'm not the fuck up. I can admit that I am just a little too honest, and too authentic and too.... well, I don't know, too..... me. But I'm not THE fuck up.

Today I feel my spirit collapse in upon itself and I give in. I am the family fuck up. What do you know? Why fight it? My mom, my sister, and even my beloved father who forever lives on this daddy's girl pedestal, knew I was the fuck up. And what we project onto our kids, they become. So why fight it. I'm tired. I'm 53, almost 54, and I've been pushing back for a lonnnnng fucking time. But today as I weigh the many, many failures in my life, I realize, I AM the fuck up. It's me. Hellooooo! Over here. It's me. I'm the one. 

click for photo credit/article, not my photo.

What's the one thing we want credit for? As women, as humans, as individuals? I mean, I guess I don't actually know what "we" want credit for. But I do know I'm not the only Mom who says, "I am a good Mom" and fight for the "good mom" title and recognition. Today, as a general rule, I care if I am a good human being or not. And I used to think I made a difference. A difference for kids. I taught them and loved them and encouraged them. But a) I don't do that anymore and b) I no longer believe I made a positive impact. So see? I really am just THE fuck up. I want to say my kids are strong, independent human beings because of the great mom I was. But there's a wealth of evidence that in spite of years upon years of crying wolf, I really fucked up motherhood. Maybe that scared little addict who gave her first child up for adoption was right. I come from a long line of fuck ups and am not capable of bucking the system long enough to make a real difference in the lives of the little ones I brought into this world. 

Maybe if the pain (the physical pain) ever recedes far enough and long enough, I'll become a good farmer. Because today, my lack of judgement left me with an unattended terrier, an animal that thrills in the kill, and two less chickens, and one missing duck. One less 'possum in this world, but also fewer of the creatures I was charged with caring for. Sacrificed because of my short-sightedness (and pain). 

For now, I have one more pain-killer in my medications. It will be saved to hopefully help me sleep. I have this day to collapse in upon myself. And to pray that the light of the day tomorrow will bring me hope. And a different perspective. Oh please dear God, let today be the end of giving in to "the fuck up." 

grief un-tangled, is that even a thing?

 I have been lost in nostalgia and reverie. Longingly remembering the past, days from my youth, feelings and thoughts over experiences and defined moments. How I loved to hear my Dad sing and how his joyful spirit was infectious. How he loved being happy and singing along to Hank Williams on the radio, or just singing along to the songs that lived in his soul. When I think of my Dad, often I get mad. I get mad at the family that "black-sheeped" him and made him into their expectations. Mad that they couldn't see beyond his actions to the gentle soul that lived inside his heart. Mad that the things that were expected of him were the very things that got him black-listed. Mad that he bore his burden and believed them. Oh.... this makes me mad. Mad about so many things in regard to his childhood, his adulthood, his rebel years, his misunderstood years, his fucked up views of love, and his later-in-life life. When a child loses their mother at the age of 8, they should be allowed to grieve. They should be loved and nurtured. Not tossed aside and targeted. 

But the older I get, the more I see the parallels. His life. My life. His shame. My shame. Familial. Societal. Individual. Collective. 

Such heavy burdens we were expected to shoulder and bury, at the same time. How can that be? Carry your cross, take responsibility for your actions, but bury it deep, carry that shame and count it as your own, even though it was thrust upon you from outside yourself. From places that you were never even meant to see. So that someone somewhere can feel less shame and blame for their actions and lack of action. 

I want to scream "SHAME ON YOU ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I want to walk away and burn bridges and carry torches and burn those fuckers to the ground. 

But we all know it is a matter of time, and not that much time actually, until I will come around to letting go, to gratitude, to live and let live. And thank God for that. Capital G god, not the god of gratitude or any other thing I might pair a descriptive with the word god with. But THE God. Thank God for Gratitude and letting go and crying and raging and screaming and doing it all again so that I don't have to stay angry. Carrying resentments makes me sick. It blackens my soul. It drives me to find sweet bliss, that blessed forgetfulness that I sought in a bottle, in a pill, in a man. And the never-ending shame that slithers in my shadow can only be battled with love. Martin Luther King Jr was right, "hate is too great of a burden to bear. I will choose love." (That might be paraphrased). 

This is how I feel as I write this post.