(inspired by seeing Anne Lamott)
Truth, sorrow, and grief have gone missing in popular culture. We are lost. Grief (and anger) are the way home. Anger. Fury. Sadness. Pain. Death. This is the poetics of self-stuff. Tears water our lives – like bathing, baptizing.
We’re told to pick something specific from the menu of life, and not to live in paradox. We are shamed into becoming actors of perfect lives. The newly sober, however, are allowed their real feelings.
There is no freedom without discipline. Habit, not inspiration, is the parent of creativity.
The fourth great prayer after Help, Thanks, and Wow is Whatever.
Know that you are safe. You are preapproved. You are welcomed.
The opposite of faith is certainty.
Love and serve everyone.
[Note: This story is still a work-in-progress]
It’s funny how everyone starts out working at Barrington’s by saying, “I’m not preppy and I’m never going to wear a polo.” But then that first shipment arrives, they discover the joys of sorting through the new stock, and voila, another Barrington’s prepster is born. My own personal fashion decisions have become incredibly limited after three years’ of Barrington’s employee discounts. I can buy brand new clothing for less than I’d pay at thrift stores, so I stock up. But now every morning it’s the same thing—do I wear the blue polo or the red? Continue reading
Observing Dissociative Identity Disorder from the outside is a lesson in contradictions. One day mousy, the next moment roaring, like a beast.
It’s unknown—even to the man—when the Beast became the protector of the Mouse. Some people would call the mouse part of the man a Child alter. Or a Little. But there’s something truly mouse-like about this alter’s presentation. A mouse nervously sniffs the air, prepared to run at any moment, just as this Mousy Little is fearful, always on alert, ever ready to dive beneath the protective covering of the Beast at the first sign of danger. Continue reading
This story is true. Well, until it isn’t, that is. It’s a real event from my childhood, but the ending is what my childhood imagination had pictured could have happened. Sometimes real life is more pleasant than the world of fairy tales and fantasy. The photo is the real Kandy Kottage from the good old Retro days of Bellevue, Washington where I grew up and read far too many scary stories.
In the back of the family station wagon, a little girl played with her teddy bear. This was long before the days of mandatory seatbelts, child car seats, or even auto safety glass. Continue reading
The recurring, on-going, slow motion, dream of my childhood.
Being buried alive. By my family.
Every night. Every night beginning where it left off the night before. Continue reading