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If I had something worthwhile to say

I’d post it.

But I don’t.

 

Something’s wrong.

 

I hope this is because I’ve cycled off Cymbalta after almost 5 years, but I have a sniggling suspicion that it’s not…

Sometimes I wonder why I bother, with anything.

Sometimes I think that if something that appeared to be a positive in life actually turned out positively, I’d die from the shock of it all.

The fact that you walk on hardwood floors does not negate the possibility that the rug could be pulled out from under you. (I made that one up all by myself; isn’t it cute?)

Murphy was an optimist.

 

Who knew?

Well.

Apparently, I’m a terrorist.

In a Homeland Security memo released this week, Janet Napolitano said “those that are mainly anti-governmental, rejecting federal authority in favor of state or local authority, or rejecting government authority entirely” should be watched more closely by police because they are more likely to become involved with terrorist activity.

Really?

Let me think. That description does sound a bit familiar. I know I’ve heard something like it somewhere. (scratches head)

Wait….

U.S. History class, 11th grade. Yep, that’s it.

The American experiment was created by…..terrorists.

I don’t think my history book said that.

But I’m pretty sure my daughter’s does.

 

Can someone trace this post and tell me where I live??

We are living in two separate worlds.

Actually it’s two separate houses, a mile apart. Most of the major necessities of life are at the other house, EXCEPT for our beds and the cable / phone / internet connection, which will move on Tuesday morning.

I’ve done some ill-advised things before, but moving during the holidays….what was I thinking????

Well, for one thing, Wubby would be home from college and I could enlist his help in loading and unloading boxes, etc. Then I remembered, Wubby lives the comic strip Zits. So much for that idea.

It’s December 14. Do we have a tree up? No. Have we done what little bit of shopping we plan to do? No. Christmas cards? Are you kidding…and besides, I got these nifty labels so all I have to do is make a spreadsheet of names and addresses, mail merge it and print mailing labels, plus print return address labels with the new address. Isn’t that a great idea? I thought so. Maybe I’ll get to it after the holidays.

I used to work with someone who loved Christmas so much, she would go shopping on December 26, buy bunches of decorations on sale, decorate her house some more, and have an after-Christmas party. That idea is looking really good too.

My piano is at the other house, as are the music cabinet and the music. I’m playing next Sunday and need to practice. Thought about it this afternoon, then opted for a nap here. We played three piano stuff this morning and it was fun. Three people, three pianos. Even better than the two piano, four pianists thing we did two weeks ago.

Anyway, we absolutely MUST get ourselves settled into one place this week. Or I’ll be settled in one place, behind the glass doors, staring aimlessly and drooling.

Alecto gave me this little writing assignment. Gotta read the story first, but I’ll throw something into the mix. Looks like fun.

 

tree

We’ve lived in this house for 19 years. When we bought it there were 3 trees in the front yard: a miscellaneous pine that had been a Christmas tree but was dying fast, a Bradford pear, and a maple tree.

The dying pine was the first to go.

When our son was about three we decorated the maple tree for Easter. I picked him up so he could hang a plastic egg from the top branch.

The Bradford got bigger and bigger over the years. Hurricane Fran took part of it. Later another portion split away. Then an ice storm finished it off.

The maple tree is beautiful now. It’s leaves are tinged with orange and red, almost like God took a dry paintbrush and dabbed tiny bits of color on the edges of the leaves. Every day the color grows brighter and the green fades a little more. The robins and the hummingbirds have moved out for now, but will most certainly return in the spring.

I look at the tree, see how much it’s grown over the years, and compare notes. My son has grown from a chubby baby to the young man he is now, learning to find his way in college while still managing to find his way home on a fairly regular basis. My little preemie girl has grown into the beautiful, tender-hearted young woman she is now. Hubby has picked up a pound or two, his hair greying in that way that looks distinguished in men and frumpy in women, still the high school freshman I met in Mrs. Calloway’s English class, got to know better in Miss Watkins’ physics class the next year, fell head-over-heels for the year after that. It watched him struggle to find his way, to a career and to God.

The maple tree has witnessed our grief as, one by one, grandparents and then parents left us until my mom was the only one remaining. It has witnessed our joy at the births of our children, their various birthday parties held in the yard or the driveway. It stood as a silent witness as I left each morning for work, hoping for a better day than the one before, and as I came home each evening disappointed. Now it gives its shade for me to sit under to read. It’s branches are high enough that I can mow the grass under it without having to duck to avoid being swiped in the face. My husband, son and daughter have grown so much over the years into the people who bless my life now. I look at myself and wonder if I’ve grown any, in any way that really matters.

But the maple continues to grow and change with the years and seasons.

We’ll be moving soon, just a mile or so down the road. It’s exciting to think of how this has all come about, with my mom finding someone to love, someone to love her in return. It’s also a bit overwhelming to think of moving after so many years, of the logistics of combining and rearranging not just two households, but three, as she moves into a new (to her, anyway) home, we move from this house to her house, and this house gets more sprucing up for someone new to move in. We’re planning to lease this house since the market is so bad, maybe selling it when things improve.

There are some things in the yard that I’ll transplant at least parts of: some iris I got from my sister-in-law, primroses from my aunt, stuff like that. And the monster wedding bell plant.

I can’t take the maple tree with me. It will stay here and watch over the house, observing the new people who will be living here just as it has watched over us. it will tell them about us, and maybe offer them comfort in their daily trials. Comfort it learned as it took care of us and our trials.

I’ll miss the maple tree.

I hope it misses me too, just a little.

 

slavery

There’s been a lot of talk this political season about racism in America, so let’s talk.

“Come now, let us reason.” Isaiah 1:18 (NIV)

“Come. Sit down. Let’s argue this out.” Isaiah 1:18 (The Message)

It’s been repeated over and over in the media that whites in America are racists, arguing that they will not vote for Barak Obama because he’s black. I agree that any person, white, orange, purple-striped, that says “I will not vote for <whoever> because s/he is black.” is making a racist judgement. But, is it not also true to say that those who say “I am voting for Barak Obama BECAUSE he is black.” are also making a racist judgement?

The fact of the matter is that race has absolutely nothing to do with anyone’s ability to serve in government or anywhere else. Honesty, integrity, character, experience, ability…..those are the important qualities.

But, I’m talking about race, because everyone else is, so let’s keep talking.

When you hear the term “African-American” in our country, what does that mean, exactly? The label “African-American” is most often associated with American citizens who are descendents of African slaves brought here by Europeans and others during the 17th – 19th centuries. We all know the history, at least the part about the white Europeans using slave labor to build their wealth in America. But let’s not forget that there were also Africans involved in the capture, buying and selling of their own countrymen. This was not a “white-on-black” crime against humanity, it was a crime against humanity, period. And the slave trade was finally abolished, due in large part to the work of a white Englishman, William Wilburforce, a Christian.

In both the claims of racism in politics, and racism in the persistance of the slave trade, there is guilt on either side.

Barak Obama, if elected, will be the first “African-American” president in U.S. history. His father was Kenyan, his mother a white American. His ancestral heritage, though, is not “African-American” in the way the label is commonly understood, although he portrays himself to be such.

A minor detail, right? Well, maybe, but let’s go back to that word “honesty.” We all know that politics is nasty business, but does that mean that we should give up on our desire for honesty and character in our leadership? I believe not. I’ve read portions of Obama’s “autobiography” Dreams from my Father: A story of race and inheritance, and The Audacity of Hope, and I can say without hesitation that I can’t vote for this man.

Not because he’s black, but because his vision for change in America is, at best, ambiguous. He isn’t who he wants me to believe he is, and if he can’t be honest about his true heritage then I have to wonder what else he is not being honest about.

But, this is so much bigger than politics. The more I learn about Obama, his life experience, background, associations, and ambitions, the clearer it becomes to me that his vision for change in America is to change America from what it was founded to be, a “shining city on a hill”, a place where we all have the freedom to choose to become the best we can be, or to choose to do nothing and suffer the consequences; the freedom to accept personal responsibility for our own destiny…into a country no different than any other, where government rules and the people follow, if not by choice then by “persuasion” that the government knows what’s best for the people and will impose that knowledge, whether the people want it or not.

That sounds like slavery to me.

 

Bad Poetry Day

I heard that today is Bad Poetry Day.

 

I think I posted mine a day early.