To all who celebrate Ramadan, bright blessings to you!
To all who do not and are unfamiliar with Muslim traditions, today marks the start of Ramadan. According to Wikipedia, Ramadan is when the “beginnings of what would later become the Qur’an” were revealed to the prophet, Muhammad, by the angel, Jibril (or Gabriel in English).
Muslims everywhere arose today before dawn to eat suhur (predawn meal) and will fast from food or drink until after sunset when they will break their fast with iftar. They will also abstain from tobacco products, sinful behavior, and, again, according to Wikipedia (not always the most reliable source but usually a good starting point), remain celibate during this time. They will do this every day for the next month. In addition to fasting, Ramadan is commemorated with prayer, reflection, the reciting and reading of the Qur’an, and almsgiving. Ramadan begins with the sighting of the crescent moon and ends with the sighting of the next crescent moon.
I am always amazed at the level of devotion and commitment Muslims show in their celebration of Ramadan. As a Catholic, I celebrate Lent, which also requires prayer, fasting–albeit only on Fridays when we abstain from meat, and Ash Wednesday and Good Friday when we can only eat one full meal throughout the day–and reflection. However, I often fail miserably. Is it a lack of discipline in myself? Or is it a lack of community support? Maybe it’s a little of both. But, whatever it is, I can’t imagine the dedication needed to fast from sunrise until sunset.
That being said, I offer up my prayers to those celebrating Ramadan that Allah’s blessings be many this year.
And, for all of my brothers and sisters of every religion and walk of life, may God bless you & keep you!
“Don’t just pretend that you love others: really love them. Hate what is wrong. Stand on the side of the good. Love each other with brotherly affection and take delight in honoring each other.” (Romans 12:9-10)
After hitting the “Publish” button earlier this morning, I flew out of my home office, behind as always. Roosters were crowing incessantly and felines threatened to trip me up all along my “route” as I filled bowls with food and water. Yet my mind was still racing along with my feet.
Our present social climate deeply concerns me. Not just media, or government, but friends and family, too, strive to silence any opposing opinion these days…encouraged and emboldened by that same media and government. They do so with scorn, with derision, by labeling and belittling. They embrace the constant fight-or-flight dialogue in media, and social media, the insidious fear-mongering that would keep us as sheep, never questioning what we see around us.
This post, and the one before it, may have to be taken down at some point. They will likely get flagged on social media. God forbid someone openly considers an alternative to what has become the norm today.
I’ll risk it.
So much for Freedom of Speech, or Freedom of Press.
It is worrisome. Anyone who questions the efficacy, or the validity, of this *jab* is labeled: cultish; conspiracy theorist; domestic terrorist.
Why?
There has never been, to my knowledge, any drug, or medication, or medical procedure, that has not come with risks. We see the infomercials every day when we turn on the television. We hear them on the radio as we drive down the street. And we shake our heads at the often lengthy list of side effects associated with each one–many of them worse than the malady they’re designed to control (they never really cure you of anything; there’s no money in that). Somebody, somewhere, has questioned the efficacy and the validity of these medications in the infomercials. We don’t suppress those. Instead, we glorify them for the advertisers who hope to get you dependent upon them. Often with good outcomes, such as controlling one’s diabetes, or high blood pressure, etc., but the dependency is still made…if we CHOOSE the treatment encouraged by our medical practitioners. Always before we’ve been allowed to make these choices for ourselves.
But not this time.
This time, we are obviously too stupid to make any choices for ourselves…without having a blue ring stuck in our nose by which to be led around.
Why is it not okay to question this new medicine? Why are we being compelled to accept without question? What makes this *jab* any different from Prozac, or Metoprolol, for example, that it should be exempt from the usual scrutiny or initial distrust? And, more importantly, why does our government, and friends and family, seek to punish us by the loss of our jobs/income, by the loss of our homes and all that we have worked for through the loss of that income, by isolating us from each other for not complying? Why are we being labeled as social pariahs merely for making an informed choice as we have always been allowed to do with any other medicine or medical procedure…rather than nodding incessantly like a stuffed dog in the rearview window?
“It’s a pandemic” is the usual response to such questions; it’s catching.
So is the flu. We’ve never been threatened with job loss, or social isolation, for not getting a flu shot.
Perhaps that’s next on the agenda…
But, more importantly, we must ask ourselves, should we be normalizing the constraints and practices implemented under a special circumstance? For example, should we have grown up with each of us wearing one of those creepy, bird-masks used during the Spanish Flu a century ago…just in case it might still be “catching”? Yes, they were the stuff of nightmares, and it seems ludicrous in this context, but so is seeing the loss of personal autonomy over our own bodies.
I’ve talked a lot in my blog about growing up in an alcoholic home. I’ve talked about the abuse. And the suppression of following one’s natural instincts and inclinations. When my stepfather thought he was losing control of us, when we said something that he didn’t like, or disagreed with him, he got directly in our faces and, with each *point* he made, he slapped the counter beside us, pounded the end table, to punctuate it. Though he never laid a hand on us during his monologues, our bodies jumped with each slap, or pounding of a fist, on that hard surface. It was fear-mongering at its finest. Other times, he pulled the guilt card. How could I have called the cops on him? Look at that record album he bought for me last week…much like we all got $1200 in a stimulus check so we should be grateful and allow our bodies and minds to be controlled by those who gave it to us.
Perhaps we should all adopt a 12-Step program to cure our addictions to both the mainstream and social media’s biases…
Yes, there is a lot of misinformation out there. Sadly, it seems to occur more frequently within the same party that supposedly champions equality for everyone regardless of color, religion, gender/identification, or socioeconomic status.
Apparently, diverse political ideologies don’t deserve the same equal rights…even those of us who usually identify with a more progressive party, but are still questioning what we see in the media, and on the streets, today. How dare we!
This is wrong, and frightening, on so many levels.
Going back to one of my opening paragraphs, yes, family and friends do belittle and label those of us who are questioning and choosing differently than they have but, usually, only on social media. Rarely do I hear labels, or belittling tactics, in person. The armchair social media junkie is bold and brash only when they cannot see the hurt their careless remarks inflict on another human being. Like the alcoholic who hides behind their addiction, and tries to control the world around them because they, themselves, are out of control, these armchair *experts* who espouse their-way-or-the-highway ideologies, forget that there are fellow human beings on the receiving end of their tirades. Perhaps if we all remembered that, and responded accordingly, the strangle-hold of our dopamine addiction would finally heal. Isn’t that what Jesus would do? Instead, there doesn’t appear to be even a feigned attempt to listen to our brothers and sisters, or to try to understand where they’re coming from. Such humanity is discouraged…and labeled a threat.
“For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so no one may boast.” (Ephesians, 2:8-9)
I want to be a writer, but I have to have some other career to support it, I have to do something else besides write…well, not all of us can be the next Toni Morrison or Stephen King so maybe there’s some truth to this one…but there must be something defectively wrong with me to not have found another career option that I feel just as passionate about…
Like some of my favorite authors who write 8 hours a day, I have to carve out 8 hours of my own to dedicate to my novel, my blog, etc; I can’t be a writer if I don’t write every day for 8 hours a day…even with a “day” job and a small hobby farm and the need to eat, sleep and, well, you know…
Like a favorite singer/songwriter, I do my best writing at 3:30 a.m. so, if I don’t get up at 3:30 a.m. every day to write, I’m not doing my best writing?
I can’t run a used bookstore; I won’t make enough money from it to support myself; I need another career to supplement it (it’s like the writer thing…)
I want to rescue animals, to offer them sanctuary–and often do–but, I’m a single female and I’m in danger of becoming a hoarder–or so the media tells me. If I was married, or a man, and still took in the occasional stray cat, and the free-to-good-home rabbits and goats, etc., found forever homes for some and offered a forever home to others, because their original humans were being evicted and no longer had a home to offer them, would I NOT be in danger of becoming a hoarder?
I want to homestead, to grow my own food and produce my own clothing, to live as sustainably as possible and lower my carbon footprint, but I don’t have enough land, enough money, enough knowledge, and I have to start right here…well, I have, sort of, but I’m also facing foreclosure myself so there’s a bit of apathy getting in the way. Why keep investing here when here may soon be gone?
In my youth, I wanted to be a rock star but, I didn’t keep my guitar strapped to me day in and day out. I only spent an hour or two each day practicing after work, so I guess I must not have wanted it so badly…
When I worked in living history, I told myself I didn’t know enough about either herbs or gardening to manage an heirloom herb garden. I felt like a fraud and everyone would find out eventually that I didn’t have what it takes. It’s called Imposter Syndrome; I just learned about it in my first class as I work towards my MFA in Creative Writing…
I made a mistake 10 years’ ago and rushed headlong into an abusive relationship with someone. I knew better, saw trouble coming a mile away, heard the voice of Reason in my ear saying, “Walk the other way” and ignored it; gave him a chance. I no longer deserve God’s grace…or His love…or the love of another man should I ever meet him…
These are the lies I tell myself, among others. Having just turned 55, “I’m too old” is another…even with the evidence before me that age has nothing to do with success or love or, well, anything…except maybe wisdom and experience, and the appreciation that usually comes with them.
“I’m not worthy” is the overall underlying message in each of these. I have to *earn* it. And, yes, if I want to write, I have to write. If I want to grow food, I have to plant a garden. If I want to be taken seriously at any endeavor and meet with success, I have to do the work. So, these things I tell myself each day have an undercurrent of truth and practicality ringing through.
The Serpent is cunning, to say the least…
There are conditions to everything, especially when you grow up in a house with addictions and abuse. A loving Father is an alien concept. And, no matter how much love, support, etc. you receive from others, that nuclear family unit that consists of parents, siblings and yourself, has the power to shape your way of thinking for life. So, it’s no wonder I’ve tied myself in knots and can’t seem to get out of my own way. Writing books, selling used books, caring for unwanted animals (or those on the receiving end of someone’s hard luck), homesteading and prepping, even learning an instrument by themselves may not be *enough* income to survive, let alone thrive, but together? Or, even if I still work a “day” job, I’m not allowed the joy that each may bring to me?
They’re idols.
That’s another lie echoing through my mind. The Lord has brought me to this place because I’ve made “idols” of animals and books, and I’m trying to live self-sufficiently, which means I’m not relying on Him…or so I’ve heard said. To punish me for this “idolatry”, He’s going to whisk it all away. Hence, the impending doom of foreclosure and zoning challenges…
Who would follow such a God?
Or am I wrong? Will I be stripped down to nothing? Am I being taught another lesson in not judging others for decisions they’ve made during hard luck circumstances? Again, I don’t deserve His grace because I haven’t always given grace to others…
Praise God we don’t get what we *deserve* for our mistakes. Ultimately, I know there’s nothing we can do to *earn* his grace; it is already freely given but, my faith needs a good bolstering today.
“The whole world spoke the same language, using the same words. While men were migrating in the east, they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. They said to one another, ‘Come, let us mold bricks and harden them with fire.’ They used bricks for stone, and bitumen for mortar. Then they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the sky, and so make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered all over the earth.’ The Lord came down to see the city and the tower that the men had built. Then the Lord said: ‘If now, while they are one people, all speaking the same language, they have started to do this, nothing will later stop them from doing whatever they presume to do. Let us then go down and there confuse their language, so that one will not understand what another says.’ Thus the Lord scattered them from there all over the earth and they stopped building the city. That is why it was called Babel, because there the Lord confused the speech of all the world. It was from that place that He scattered them all over the earth.” (Genesis 11: 1-9)
I have been remiss the last couple of weeks. When I printed out a copy of the Interfaith Calendar for 2022 from Diversity Resources, there was a reason behind it: to commemorate the holidays celebrated by all faiths and walks of life. And here it has sat collecting dust for the last several days. (heavy sigh)
First off is the Feast of Epiphany on January 6th. As a practicing Catholic, I know that this is the day commemorating the “first manifestation of Jesus to the Gentiles for Christians”. It marks the day the three kings arrived in Bethlehem, 12 days after the birth of Christ. As we celebrated it recently at church, and I was the lector doing the Bible readings to commemorate it, you’d think that I would have remembered. (again, heavy sigh)
Of course, if you follow the Orthodox calendar, Christmas isn’t until January 7th. (Do Orthodox Christians celebrate a Feast of Epiphany on January 13th? There is no mention on the calendar but…) Anyway, this one I should know as I dated a man who was Ukrainian and his family had a celebration every year on January 7th. A belated Merry Christmas to you all!
January 10th is celebrated by Mahayana Buddhists as the day of Buddha’s enlightenment. This is Bodhi Day. I hope that it is acceptable and appropriate to wish you a Happy Bodhi Day; good thoughts and intentions are meant in the wishing. As I realized my lax this morning, I did not research further than the brief descriptions offered by this calendar. Going forward, I will do better with research, learn and share any traditions, or customs associated with each day.
Lastly, I missed the birthday of Guru Gobind Singh. He was the tenth Sikh Guru and spiritual master according to Diversity Resources. A shout out to everyone who loves and follows the teachings of this man. Again, I will do better to research the many holidays throughout the year so that future commemorations do not sound so stilted or pat.
Why am I doing this? Because the best way to lesson any division between us is to learn about each other. While we may be of different faiths and cultures, when we scratch below the surface, we usually find we have way more in common than not. And, for anyone reading who celebrates the holidays that I gave so little information on, feel free to share more details in the comments below. While I outlined my hopes and dreams for an animal sanctuary yesterday, I hope that this blog will become another sort of sanctuary for the readers who visit here. All are welcome!
“For you have a new life. It was not passed on to you from your parents, for the life they gave you will fade away. This new one will last forever, for it comes from Christ, God’s ever-living Message to men.” (1 Peter 1:23)
I find myself unable to think of a word, or biblical phrase, to define this year. I’ve thought of “Intention”. “Trust”. “Discipline”. I need to work on all of these…and a phrase/verse from the Bible to help remind me.
Wow.
I guess I really am mired in depression. See? I need to work on that trust issue for sure!
But, as always, on New Years’, I like to take a moment to reflect on the year past and remember those loved ones who will never again grace The Herbal Hare in life.
Praise the Lord, my human family has been hale and hearty this year. =) However, we did lose the boss of the barnyard this past spring. Sgt. Feathers, my Polish crested rooster, is protecting his ladies in heaven these days. And while his sons, Radar and MIG, and grandson, Jeep, are doing their best to carry on with protecting our living flock, it seems strange not to hear his trumpeting anymore…followed closely by a little, squeaky half-pint of a crowing. Tank, the little Silkie, who, having followed so closely at Sgt. Feathers’ heels in life, followed his commander closely in death, too. I lost them within a few days of each other. With Sgt. Feathers, it had been expected; every day was a gift. He was quite old for a roo (10) and had started walking almost hunched over like the old man he was. Tank, however, is a mystery. No sign of illness or injury. But, because they like to peck the ground, parasites are always an issue…no matter how clean and careful you are with their environment.
Sgt. FeathersTank
We also lost two beloved felines this year.
Only a few days after I posted last New Year’s memorial, Mom’s cat, Rosco, left us. Rosco had an interesting life. He was found atop a house in Illinois during all the flooding in the Midwest over a decade ago. No clue who his owners were, he was brought to a local shelter. Mom and my stepfather were shopping at PetSmart one weekend. The store was hosting an adoption clinic this day. Mom saw Rosco and fell in love. But my stepfather said, “No, no more cats!”. She worked on him as they wandered the store and, as they reached the checkout, he relented.
But Rosco had already been adopted…
…by their upstairs neighbor in the apartment complex where they lived! Said neighbor did not take good care of him though. Mom watched in horror as this declawed kitty had his front paws intentionally raked over the rough bark of a tree, lost weight due to inadequate feeding, and lastly was kicked by the neighbor’s boyfriend. Mom saw them outside with him on a leash, marched over, picked Rosco up and walked away with him. When the couple protested and threatened to call the police, Mom challenged them to go right ahead so she and the other neighbors could all tell the police how cruel they had been to this little guy. Poor Rosco had to have his jaw wired from the kick. And had to be fed frequent, tiny meals for awhile until his shrunken stomach could handle more substantial amounts of food. He grew to expect the frequent feedings though. He was quite fat by the end of his days…except his tail, which stood up skinny and reminiscent of the wire used to guide the bumper cars at a fair. He rode shotgun on the dashboard of Mom’s minivan when she traveled across country from Missouri to Connecticut to move in with me back in 2014. His “hoot” will be missed (Rosco’s jaw remained misshapen due to the abuse he endured before Mom rescued him and he could not articulate a more traditional “Me-ow!”).
Rosco
Lastly, Kirby. We lost him in May 2021. Kirby came to “visit” for the first time in the spring of 2014. I heard some of the resident felines howling in protest in the kitchen, went to investigate, and saw a bright-eyed little face peeking in over the window ledge. He did this for several nights…all while I protested I did not *need* another cat. He probably belongs to a neighbor, he’s just passing through, etc. But he kept coming back. And, finally, I determined that, yes, God had planted another stray kitty in my path. I started feeding him, gaining his trust. It took a few months (!!??!) before I was able to trap him and get him indoors. And then another couple of weeks of him being isolated in a room by himself until I could get him to a vet.
He howled all the way to the vet office, ripped open his toes trying to claw his way out of the travel cage, and then shot out of the cage and placed bloody runnels down the exam room walls as soon as the doc opened the cage. He had to be sedated so she could examine him, patch up his mangled toes, neuter and give him his shots. I seriously thought this was one baby who was too feral for a forever indoor home.
He proved me wrong.
Mom had just arrived with Rosco and Max, her blue heeler we lost a couple of years’ ago, and Kirby and Rosco became bosom buddies, along with Paz, my geriatric tuxedo. Then, a few months’ later, when a pregnant Priscilla was dumped off on the farm, he minded her babies like the proud surrogate Papa he became to them. He, Ozzy, Emmylou, and Alice Cooper became inseparable, and he was a sort of ambassador to every poor feline this farm has taken in since.
However, I proved him wrong, too. I told him he would love laps someday…and I was right. Once he was reassured that he was loved and there would always be someone to care for him, he was the ultimate cuddle kitty. =)
Kirby with his adopted “sons”, Alice Cooper and Ozzy Osbourne (l to r)
Both Rosco and Kirby, Priscilla late last December, and earlier in 2020, my Pearl, all developed kidney and heart disease rather suddenly after using Seresto collars. I don’t know if there is a correlation, though I did see an article in USA Today in regard, stating that these collars are being linked to possible kidney and heart disease; I have not found the link to that article today but, I did find a more recent news article about how certain lawmakers are asking that these collars be recalled. There have been reported incidents in the thousands as regards these collars so, please, proceed with caution if you are using them for your pets. I have included the link below so you may read it for yourselves. My then-vet suggested the kidney and heart failure was simply due to their age. Granted, Pearl was 16 when she passed; Kirby and Rosco both estimated at 12-13 years’ of age. Priscilla, however, was only 7, a bit too young, in my opinion and experience, to be struck with organ failure. No sign of illness in any of them prior to these sudden downturns…and I do mean sudden. Rosco had been playing with me like a young kitten just 3 days’ earlier when all of a sudden, he just stopped eating and started shutting down. We have since found a new vet as the “old” one refused to take my concerns seriously when I voiced them to him. I may be wrong about the collars but, it seems, I am not alone in my concerns with them.
Kirby; the best ones are the ones who choose you (sigh!)
In addition to these memorials, I think it is safe to say that 2021 was even more challenging than 2020. I’ve alienated a lot of friends due to my stance as regards mandating getting jabbed with something that neither protects one from contracting an illness, nor prevents one from spreading it. I’ve been a Democrat all of my life; I am seriously considering at least becoming “unaffiliated” as I cannot abide the hate and vitriol being spewed about by others of the party. The fear-mongering by mainstream media; the attempts to force us into a police, or authoritarian state; the lack of respect for others who do not share the same views have left a bitter taste in my mouth. I actually owe President Trump an apology for being so anti-Trump during his tenure. While he will never be a favorite of mine, yeah, it really was a witch hunt…one, I am ashamed to say, I contributed to widely on social media.
I don’t know what this new year will bring. The media continues to cry for the arrest, ostracism, and abuse of those who either cannot, or will not, take their (in my opinion) poison**. Gasoline is up to $3.60 per gallon here in New England for regular unleaded; I’m sure it will rise even higher as we approach summer. Empty shelves grace the local Walmart and grocery stores, and there’s sticker shock when you do find what you’re looking for. On a more personal note, while foreclosure is still eminent here at The Herbal Hare, I find myself even more committed to homesteading, and now prepping, than ever before. I cannot help but think a collapse of some sort is eminent. I pray I am wrong, but it doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. Perhaps you’re all thinking, there goes another whacked out conspiracy theorist. But, maybe, just maybe, there’s something to those conspiracies. (No, I don’t think little green men are injecting tracking devices under our skin, but I do see changes in government, in our society, that make me think I may have to carry around special papers proclaiming myself “free” (passport anyone?), or don a special band marking me as some sort of enemy (face masks?))
However, I am committed to building a community of like-minded people, too. None of us are islands unto ourselves; we need community. Perhaps the word I’m looking for this year is “tribe”. Regardless of whether or not you agree with me on a social or political level, when all is said and done, this year I feel it is especially important to at least be kind to one another. We are all struggling during this turmoil. And our tribe, or family, is who we choose to care for.
But this is all just what I think. I invite you to share, whether you agree or not, in the comments below. I do ask that you be respectful of others, and of this blog, by refraining from profanity, name-calling, bullying or belittling; again, we are all one family, each a very special part of the body of Christ, none of us whole without the other. That being said, regardless of what you believe (or not!); how you look; who you love; socioeconomic status, or current “jab” status, all are welcome…to this blog, to this community, in my home and in my heart. We got through 2021 together, we can get through 2022 as well…and, hopefully, come out the backside of it in a much better place than we are going in.
Wishing everyone much love, much hope, peace, prosperity and, above all, a deep and abiding faith for the New Year! May God bless you & keep you!
**A note: though my opinion leans towards choice when it comes to matters of health, to everyone who has been *poked*, please know that I respect your choice to do so. It is your body and you have to do what is best for you and yours. I am not “anti” pokes; I am anti mandating personal autonomy. For everyone obsessed with forcing others to do as you do, stop for one moment, please, and think how you would feel if suddenly a mandate was issued that said you were no longer *allowed* to get poked, even though you feel in your heart it is the right thing to do for you and yours.
Again, may God bless you & keep you! Stay safe & stay free!
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be enrolled. This was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria. So all went to be enrolled, each to his own town. And Joseph too went up from Galilee from the town of Nazareth to Judea, to the city of David that is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, to be enrolled with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. While they were there, the time came for her to have her child, and she gave birth to her firstborn son. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.
Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock. The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear. The angel said to them, “Do no be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying:
“Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”
A very Merry Christmas! And may God bless you & keep you and yours throughout the New Year!
“Mocking the poor is mocking the God who made them. He will punish those who rejoice at others’ misfortunes.” (Proverbs 17:5)
I received an invite to an outing to go whale watching from a cousin recently…which was then recanted after seeing my Go Fund Me campaign link on Facebook. Of course, nothing was said initially. As the date of the outing was coming up, I messaged her to ask if we were still on. She didn’t want me to feel “bad”. I’m not sure exactly what that meant but, I want to believe her heart was in the right place, and that she was simply being sensitive to my financial difficulties. I sincerely hope she wasn’t thinking I might “mooch” off of her, or others, in order to go. The expense was minor and, despite my situation, I would have enjoyed the outing…as a day of respite, perhaps, from my situation. I confess to feeling rather hurt, even if good intentions were meant.
It seems a common theme these days.
For those of you new to this blog, I fractured my shoulder two years ago and lost a full-time position as a result from my injury. I have yet to find full-time work again and am behind many months on my mortgage. It has gone into foreclosure…and even Covid allowances aren’t doing much to stall the progression. My inability to get the vaccine is making it harder to find that full-time position, even if I trusted the “poke” enough to do so. I have new neighbors who got themselves on the Planning & Zoning Board and are challenging my right to farm, to raise livestock, despite having engaged a zoning attorney over a dozen years ago and getting the okay to do so. Now I have beloved animals at risk if I cannot find an attorney to take on this case…and, of course, pay him/her to do so. The roof leaks. There’s mold growing. Something is driving my electric bill up to $700 each month (from $100) and the electric company sends me to Community Action who sends me back to the electric company to find out what it is and try to remedy it. The yard is overgrown, as usual, because I lack the proper tools to keep it up…or the means of hiring out for what I cannot do myself. I’m getting the runaround from the DMV. And I have nowhere to go if I can’t save my property and pets that I cannot bear to lose.
All of this bearing down on me, and I’m trying hard not to succumb to “victim mode”, but I really hate how society treats those who are either inherently poor (i.e. from birth), or simply have fallen on hard times.
I may have recanted the aforementioned outing myself after taking a careful look at my finances. I do work. I do have some income coming into my home. It’s just not enough to cover all of my expenses yet. So, while I appreciate the concern, it would’ve been nice to have been asked/reminded of the outing and still be regarded as a thinking, feeling human being…
Even if I had determined FOR MYSELF that, no, I couldn’t handle this expense this month (I get paid monthly by the library where I work).
The poor, the downtrodden, the down-on-their-luck individuals are half-humans for most of society. We’re too stupid to manage our own money…even though I lived on the savings, 401K and other investments that most experts advise for two whole years after being laid off in 2009 from a corporate position.
“We brought our poverty, or difficulties, onto ourselves”…even though we work whatever menial job comes our way and carefully budget, save, practice a frugality that most of society would never be able to handle if they were in our shoes, and either we were born into poverty already and so have a tougher climb up the ladder of success, or our difficulties are the result of a recession, depression, or an injury or illness. Not sure how that equates to bringing it all on ourselves but, so be it.
“We don’t want to work”…oftentimes, the poor in this world work harder than anyone but, wages, and hours available, seldom keep pace with the cost of basic needs. Despite the media hyping a “booming” job market, most are still part-time endeavors…and now we have mandates crippling our economy even more.
The financially-challenged are not allowed to have any enjoyment. God forbid you should have pets. Or buy a pizza for dinner on a rare occasion…even if you save some of it for lunch the next couple of days and, thus, get multiple meals out of it.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, maybe feeling a little sorry for myself. But, more, I’m feeling a sense of loneliness that has this computer screen blurring even as I type. When you’ve been struggling as long as I have, there’s a sense of apathy that settles over you. Anxiety and depression war inside in an endless cycle that can often be crippling.
Yes, I’m partly to blame for my loneliness. I don’t reach out. I don’t pick up the phone just to call and say “hello” or find out how others are doing, but rarely does anyone do likewise for me. Mom and I could die over here and it would be weeks before anyone discovered our remains. Granted, in my apathy, in the uncertainty that such financial struggles bring, I have let everything go. My home is a fright so I don’t invite anyone in. I’ve gained weight, been eating mostly unhealthy, and most of my social interaction has been work…or the doctor’s office (I have a stress test coming up). I sleep a lot more but, it’s rarely solid. The mind races at night when all is quiet. Insomnia visits from time to time…as do nightmares and chronic fatigue syndrome. In short, I’m suddenly ashamed and I don’t want friends seeing how badly things have gotten. I am overwhelmed. And pride goeth before the fall.
Of course, I know the Adversary uses all of this to whisper his lies, to drag us down further and further away from God…and humanity. I’m not worthy. I’m unloved. God has forgotten me. I’ve used up all of His grace. The litany drones on. Rather than praise, my prayer life–when I remember it–has been a pathetic begging to be taken out of this storm. Maybe my lack of attention to the blessings He’s already bestowed upon me is part of the problem…even as I acknowledge the lack of means to provide some of that upkeep. (See how the Adversary works…)
And yet, I’m mindful that He is teaching me a lesson in all of this, too. Like many others, I never really recovered from the Great Recession so, when I fractured that shoulder, there was much less to fall back on to sustain me. Since 2009 I have had to swallow my pride many times to visit food pantries, apply for heating assistance and medical coverage through the state, and a host of other things just to survive. I used to judge others…much the same way I am lamenting being judged. I looked down my nose, rejected friendships from anyone who might be too “needy”. Now the shoe is on the other foot and, yes, it pinches. Bad…
But the greatest lesson of all has been three-fold. First and foremost, I cannot do this without Him. He’s asking me to rely on Him. To trust Him…no matter what happens. To believe that He still loves me, always has, always will. That’s a tough one for a survivor of abuse, the concept of a loving Father in heaven. The Adversary’s still whispering doubt in my ear even as I type. Proof that I need to draw closer to Him in this storm, rather than reject and withdraw.
Second is to remember that picking up that phone costs nothing. Even in my own need, there are others who could also use a friend…and it’s nice to be remembered “just because”. Walmart sells boxes of generic cards for under $2 each. A remembered birthday, a sympathy card when a friend loses a loved one, a get-well-soon might be appreciated far more than a quick blurb on Facebook. And it’s always nice to be asked.
The third part is to start sharing my life again…even if it is in chaos. Rare am I going to have posts about some amazing workshop that I attended or an outing I enjoyed; it’s simply not possible. And, while I hate constantly posting about my situation, maybe those kinds of posts would be less if I wrote more consistently about other things…and not just when my anxiety is through the roof and I’m in need of an outlet.
To everything there is a season…and I still have hope that He has a plan in all of this.
“The path of the godly leads away from evil; he who follows that path is safe” (Proverbs 16:17)
I had just come back from the company cafeteria with a cup of tea when a co-worker hollered over the foam-filled cubicle wall, “Oh, my God! Did you see that?” And then a cacophony of voices asking, “What?” “Yes, OMG!” “Holy crap…my sister/mother/brother just texted me; look at this!” “What happened?” and “This can’t be real.”
And, yet, it was.
As the images scrolled across every screen in our corporate facility, I remember glancing at the plate-glass window behind me and trying to imagine what it would be like to see a large commercial airplane heading straight for me. Granted, I was on the ground floor and our facility sprawled rather than rising up to touch the skyline but, at that point, I believed anything could happen. I thought of the family and friends those people would never see again…because, in that instance, you would know there was no escape.
Glancing at the clock on the PC, I picked up my extension (I wouldn’t join the ranks of cellphone users for many years to come), and called my parents’ house in Warwick. I knew they weren’t flying anywhere but, you know, you couldn’t help but check-in with all of your loved ones at a time like this. Every other extension was lit up with the same type of phone calls. Nobody was working on September 11, 2001…outside of first responders and hospital personnel. And, as news footage rolled, janitors, cafeteria workers, assemblers, accountants, executives and technical engineers stood shoulder-to-shoulder to watch in horror.
Mom wasn’t up yet. My stepfather had just awakened, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. His two-plus-packs-a-day-early-morning-gravel declared, “It looks like something out of a Sci-Fi film”. As he could likely quote dialog from Star Trek, I agreed with this assessment. I still had that feeling of otherworldliness myself; it would not wear off for some time. For me, it was more like Freddy Kruger meets Godzilla, or something equally as fantastical and unbelievable.
My stepfather woke my mother up. It felt good just to hear their voices as I watched new footage rolling of people trapped in the upper floors of the Twin Towers jumping to their deaths.
Suddenly, my Mom mentioned a new neighbor of theirs who had sat outside with them a few nights’ earlier, showing off a new tattoo. She remembered it depicted an airplane flying into a pair of towers…
They hung up to call the local police station.
Nobody ever responded, took them seriously…even after they discovered only hours later that the couple had moved out in the middle of the night on September 10th.
Later, as the list of casualties scrolled across every news outlet feed, I learned that Mom had an old high school friend on board one of the planes. Carol was en route to her daughter’s wedding. I can’t imagine her last thoughts…or that of her daughter on what should have been a day filled with joy, not sorrow. And, as my mother’s side of the family is mostly police officers, I couldn’t help but grieve for those who lost their lives trying to save others, while also admiring the bravery that every emergency worker displayed as they rushed in, heedless of their own safety.
Of course, with the renewed sense of patriotism after these attacks, and the pretty much unanimous approval for our commander-in-chief to invade the Middle East, came a great fear in the hearts of many for anyone of Middle Eastern heritage. Or anyone just sporting a head covering of some sort. Memes spread via email hating on anyone Muslim or Middle Eastern…or both. I understood the fear behind it but, when one such meme surfaced quoting passages from the Quran, I decided to risk some censure. The quote and the book didn’t even exist in the Quran (and forgive my faulty memory for not remembering the fake quote from 20 years’ ago). Though I am Christian, I have a copy of the Quran in my home and have read it cover-to-cover. I double checked and then copied down text from the numbered passage the meme claimed as “gospel”.
Yup. I got reamed. Family, friends…was I crazy?
No. Just trying to do what I thought Jesus would do: counter the lie with the truth…and stop the persecution of innocent people. While all members of Al Qaeda and the Taliban identify as Muslim, not every Muslim is a member of Al Qaeda or the Taliban. It’s like members of the Ku Klux Klan claiming to be Christian, but not every Christian is a member of the KKK. Both are fringe extremists of their respective religions and cultures.
I was called un-American for pointing out the error in the aforementioned meme. I had a brother deployed to the Middle East right after 9/11. Of course, I was worried sick over his safety, and that of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Of course, I supported (and still support) our troops, our police officers, firefighters, EMT’s and other emergency workers.
And I always will.
As I sit here remembering 09/11/2001, my heart grieves for Every. Single. Life lost in this terrorist attack. I grieve and pray for all of the unsuspecting executives and office workers, maintenance and food preppers, blue color and white color, who went to work that morning never realizing what that day would bring…or the ultimate sacrifice they would have to make. I pray for the passengers and crew aboard each airline. I pray for the emergency workers and first responders who gave so selflessly. I pray for the lives lost over the last 20 years due to the myriad pollutants inhaled during and after the attack. I pray for all of our soldiers, many who also gave the ultimate sacrifice to defend our country, and for those who came back less than whole with limbs missing, sight and/or hearing destroyed, suffering from PTSD and, like so many of our vets from Vietnam, found themselves homeless upon their return to the U.S. (we can do better than this America…). And, yes, I also pray for those caught in a cycle of hate for their heritage and/or beliefs since this attack, whether Muslim or Sikh or any other individual mistaken and mistrusted for something they had no more control over than any other American.
Twenty years…
The children of the soldiers deployed in 2001 are now old enough to be soldiers themselves. 13 of them died as our current administration finally pulled out of Afghanistan. Yes, it was time and past for this war to end.
More criticism: I’ve been told I have no idea how hard it is to pull a whole army out of a country like that and I shouldn’t judge…even though thousands of American citizens and Afghan allies were left behind. I should focus on the, I believe the number is over 120,000, people that were rescued. Focus on the positive; this has never been done before (yeah, there’s an echo chamber here from the previous administration…). Those left behind are essentially hostages now. And, no, I really don’t know how hard it is to pull out of a country like that. But my brother could’ve been one of those 13. And I believe my critics are missing the point completely as we all mourn the loss of who I pray will finally be the last of those lost since 9/11 and the seemingly endless war that has followed in its wake.
“But Lot’s wife looked back as she was following along behind him, and became a pillar of salt.” (Genesis 19:26)
I feel a bit like Lot’s wife. He’s been pointing me away from here for years now. And I keep looking back, allowing nostalgia and sentiment to sway my decisions. Now home has become unsafe and I received the foreclosure notice yesterday.
WARNING: There may be some redundancy in my blog posts as the weeks roll on. I will be sharing the link to my Go Fund Me campaign periodically in my posts. Please forgive me; these are desperate times.
Even if you cannot help, if you could share this link on your social media pages, I would be forever indebted to you! Your prayers, positive thoughts and energy are also appreciated!
“When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up–the flames will not consume you.” (Isaiah 43:2)
Praising the good Lord even in the midst of a storm…I struggle with that one, even though I know that it is correct. I know, deep down inside, that even in these little earthquakes that rattle the soul, He has my best interest at heart. He has my back.
Until the voice of the adversary creeps up and tells me I’m not worthy. I’m being punished for something I did. Or didn’t do. Or didn’t do right. All those promises from the Bible are for other people.
Then there’s another voice that whispers, “Why am I praising the struggle???”
That’s probably the worst one of all, the one that pulls me the furthest from my Lord and Savior: questioning why.
Because it shows I haven’t quite learned how to walk by faith yet.
But I will praise Him. Even if a part of me has forgotten how. How to surrender. How to let go. Did I ever really know? Have I ever really let go long enough for real trust to grow?
But praise Him I will.
I praise you Lord for the splinter still caught under my right ring finger…and for the salve I made several months’ ago containing the plantain that, hopefully, will draw it out.
I praise you for the acid reflux and asthma attacks Wednesday night that had me up at 2 a.m…and made me realize just how unsustainable such an early rising would be for the long haul.
I praise you for whatever is leaking in the basement. And for the lack of funds to have it looked at and repaired; further proof that this old fixer-upper has become a drain on my strength and soul.
I praise you for the new neighbors who are harassing us and challenging zoning regulations. I praise you for blessing them…and maybe there is just a little gremlin still sitting on my shoulder that says, “Yeah, open their eyes! Pierce their souls with contrition for the hardship they’ve added to a thousandfold! (Translation: a thinly veiled plea for revenge…lol!) I praise You for that, too; there’s still some fight left after all.
I praise you that I didn’t get the director’s job, yet another full-time position that would’ve made all the difference financially. I praise you for answering my prayer that I get that position only if You mean for Mom and I to stay here in Connecticut.
I praise you for the new kittens who are filling our home and our hearts with laughter.
I praise you for the friends, family, and spiritual community that you have blessed me with for almost 20 years. And all of the many animals that have shared this home with us.
And, Lord, if it be thy will, I praise You for showing me where to now. It’s been almost a decade since this storm first hit, Praise God! I’m growing oh-so weary…
And, yes, there is a note of cynicism and bitterness. But also, an inner canniness that understands a little of what is happening here. ..at least I hope so.
You see, I started working with a coach last month. She is a Christian and helps those of us whose faith is struggling. She is also a writing coach. If nothing else, she is helping me to simply show up. To write. To pray. To worship and create. To draw closer to Him.
And that’s not in the adversary’s plans at all. So, of course, he’s throwing as many monkey wrenches at me as he can find.
But, you know, I even praise the Lord for both the monkey wrenches and the cynicism. I may not know all of God’s plans right now, where He is leading me, where He wants me to go, or what He wants me to do, but I do know that that ol’ devil perceives the threat to his machinations. And that’s worthy of at least a dozen “Hallelujahs”. Maybe praising Him in the midst of a storm isn’t that difficult after all.
The Herbal Hare Tomestead and Animal Sanctuary 