La-La Land

Two years ago, I visited my older sister on Vancouver Island. I was terribly upset about my unhappy marriage and a few other huge stresses. My sister, who is a dear close friend to me, was also upset. Two years before that, she and I had watched her son dying in a Victoria hospital at the age of 49. His cause of death was hemochromatosis, which is just a condition that many people live with and keep under control.

My sister’s brokenness had affected her little dog in a negative way. The dog had developed the habit of biting friends and relatives of its owner. I was told there were bite marks on a lot of people. When the dog approached me to bite for no reason, I moved behind an end table, blocking the way. When the dog persisted and charged at me from under the table, I kicked it hard like a football. I recall uttering a kind of war cry at the time. I am not too proud of that moment, but I stand behind my behaviour. I don’t know why other people would just sit there passively while sharp teeth are breaking their skin. After that, I went into my bedroom and closed the door behind me.

A half hour later, when I opened the door to my room, the little dog came in and grovelled apologetically to tell me that she knew she had done something wrong. I petted her and told her it was all right. I didn’t let myself really trust her, though, and I noticed some other weird behaviour that showed she was quite a traumatized little animal, for whatever reason.

Another incident occurred between my sister and I when we were deciding how to spend the evening. I had been going out to the forest to pray and meditate for many hours a day, usually beginning at 5 a.m. Her idea for the evening was that we would watch the movie called La-La Land. I knew from the preview that I wouldn’t like the movie and I knew it wouldn’t “cheer me up” as my sister claimed. We argued vigorously as she tried over and over to make me watch the movie. We ended up watching a different show but my sister didn’t drop her insistence that the movie La-La Land was exactly what I needed.

During the visit, which was about 9 days, there were two or three occasions during which Rose continued her barrage of persuasion. Essentially it was about her imposing her likes and dislikes on me, but I am a very different person, despite some similarities that we hold in common. It was not a very happy time. We had been through so much together and masks of lightheartedness and fun were impossible to maintain.

Later on, when I was back home, I did watch her precious movie, and as I had anticipated, I thought it was one of the lamest pieces of garbage I have ever wasted my time on. Further to that, there is no way that escaping or denying our pain, living in our own little La-la Land, does much to alleviate it. Indeed, the sooner we decide to delve into the abyss of sorrow that we must eventually face, including being realistic about the way we ourselves contribute to things not going well, the sooner we are relieved from pain and find peace. It’s terribly uncomfortable, but this discomfort is less risky than being stuck in how we wish things could be.

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a deep song

Learning to handle deep conversations that involve conflict and pain, this song is an inspiration.

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Ninjas for Love

A little poem:

Let you and I become ninjas for love.
We’ll ambush others with undeserved affection.
Our hugs will replace the grid
and screens around the world
will surrender their toxic content
and emit the powerful hormones of love.

Oxytocin makes a woman a mother
when she instinctively gives herself to others
in a thorough emptying of her own self.
You and I will scatter oxytocin around
as others may use Purell
and the world will scratch its head
wondering where the hate went–
the vicious dream will be over.

Let’s do it–you and I–
We’ll train ourselves
to take on attacks
and turn them into
an all-encompassing
devotion.

by Julie

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The All-Day Curry

I was told that a master of loving
enjoyed cooking for his disciples.
He cut the onions with great devotion,
making sure that no tiny piece
of throat-scratching onion skin
would inhabit his chickpea curry.

For years I cooked
for my hard-working husband,
the one I trusted above all others.
I sang as I chopped the veggies
and poured all my being
into the simple feast.

I told my man,
“Love is the main ingredient”
but he didn’t seem to follow.
He wondered how making a curry
took a whole day
while dust settled
on the furniture.

He ate quickly, silently,
and I had to ask
if he had enjoyed the meal.
Where had my prayers gone–
to flatulence, I guess?

This is just part of a larger story
so I hope you won’t draw
too many conclusions
from these words.
Conclusions, like chickpeas,
need more time.

And now, I must go,
fling some meat
in a pan.
Supper will be quick tonight
because my evening job
needs all my energy.
The world has entered
my cloister–
for now.

And yet I know
that I am a master of loving.
Sometimes love is expressed
by capturing coins,
which is good and useful
in itself;
Yet my most gentle reverent love
Glistens in the sauce
of the all-day curry.

a poem by Julie

with special love and devotion to Hubby on Valentine’s Day

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Don’t Stop

I sent this music video to my husband a week or two ago. I received the Jon Batiste CD for Christmas from my guy. I love Jon’s rambling way of interpreting music and find it meditative, yet energetic. He is a sexy man and has many hidden depths, it would seem.

My ongoing search for wisdom continues with great encouragement from day to day. People around me appreciate many of my words and actions and are sharing that information with me, reinforcing my idea that kindness extended is never wasted.

The people who matter to me the most haven’t stopped loving me, and I hope they don’t stop ever, because I know I won’t stop loving them, no matter what they may do or say or suffer with their own personal demons.

The other day, these words came into my mind:

We are the cause of our own misery.

Then: And within each of us lies the solution.

Until we meet again, I send blessings,

Julie

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The Laughing Reaper

In December, the Laughing Reaper came a-calling. My brother was freed from his earthly coil and, as his life had become unlivable, I know that his spirit will be light and joyful when he adjusts to his new reality.

That is, if these things exist. I totally don’t accept the popular ideas of heaven and hell, but I do think some mysterious reality exists for us beyond this place.

I had to boot up the old computer to get this blog back again after not using it much. There is a photo I want to show you, but at this point, there are some adjustments to this machine needed before I can do that.

I am roasting some beets and carrots in the oven and planning some hearty food for the evening. I am moving slowly in the bright light of sun through windows as the winter makes its journey through the calendar. I do love this life!

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Sexy music

A friend asked about which music other people find sexy. This is the only selection I can think of, but it makes me want to do some kissin with my guy. I don’t need a g for that.

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A new month begins

September is a great month to live in Saskatchewan. The first week, a lot of us complain about things like school starting again, or hurrying like heck to get the summer tasks done. Often, most of the month is perfect for being outdoors, warm but not hot, and we don’t have to mow the lawn much anymore this year.

I’ve been listening to some music tonight on youtube, so I will share a song by Nina Simone. I love her songs and her brilliant performances and piano mastery.

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Let’s support our men!

Here is an interesting article from the National Post. I may not have read it all yet but I know it connects with something which concerns me; let’s call it misandry as I believe that is the specific term for something which seems to be a trend. This word is defined as the dislike, contempt for, or prejudice against men.

Barbara Kay: The male crisis that’s ruining our boys and no one cares about

I have tried to talk to women about the very socially acceptable male-bashing that is happening today in North America. I don’t know if they can see it yet but my closest male relative says:

it is constant and really hurtful, in the media and in how average people talk.

You may not have heard men complain about this, but there may even be biological as well as cultural differences to explain this, as very few average guys want to be seen as whiny or draw attention to their own hurt feelings.

I would say to Barbara Key, I do care. I don’t know why one gender thinks it can only raise itself by putting down the other. There are biological differences and I love men for these differences. Of course, not all individuals are the same.

Example of where a man could have gotten the job done: I was in a yoga class. One woman went to the cupboard to look for a block but there were none there. Another woman who was laying down, lifted up an extra block to give to the woman but the woman who needed a block didn’t see this gesture. The helpful woman gave up and the other woman didn’t get a block. The two women were about 2 meters apart.

My guys would have gently or not so gently tossed the block onto the other person’s mat and she could have used it. My husband throws a cookie at me just about every night. Twice the cookie hit me on the face, but anyway, it is not hostile behaviour on his part. I love my men and the biological differences between us that make us work together and enrich our lives so much!

Julie

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Father’s Day Poem

Yeah, it’s Dad’s day, I guess,
the kids might phone,
if their texting fingers
are broken.

They’ll say “happy father’s day”
and then ask to speak
to their mother.

How does she do it?
Is it that extra $50
she sneaks into all
their birthday gifts,
thinking I don’t see?

I see everything.
I see Mother’s Day celebrations
being splashed around
like the Queen’s birthday.
Then father’s day comes
and it’s like a severe case
of erectile dysfunction.
No guts, no glory,
just “can I talk to Mom?”

Father’s Day
is a limp dick.

I don’t talk much.
How can I get a word in,
anyway? Blah, blah, blah;
it’s time for me to
get something done.
Mothers sacrifice,
yada yada yada,
everything for their kids.
For sure, it’s true–

But what about me?
Look at this broken body,
this stupid gut,
this third beer in my hand.
I’m tired of being a
one-legged stool.
Everybody enjoys spending it,
but I’m the one
who has to keep going
until I drop.
They seem to think
we’re well off,
but you’re only as good
as your last paycheck.
Where, how, will they live–
when I’m wormfood?

Damn it!
I love my kids,
I’ve proven it
by my actions.
I love their mother too
‘though she says
I don’t often show it.
She’s tousling their hair,
while I stand awkward
waiting for a hug.

I am
a human being
with feelings.

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