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Elephants are Stalking Me, but They Aren't Pink So I'm Still Sane

A few days ago, I mentioned some Wound-Licking, Truth-Telling, and Under-the-Bed-Clearing that I felt like needed my attention.

That began a series of dialogs with some close friends about how best to gently but effectively lance and lick those wounds without causing major collateral damage. Two important facts here: 1) I’m good at generating collateral damage, and 2) I suck at cleaning up collateral damage.

What can I say? It’s a gift. Call it like I see it. State the obvious, even when not politically or socially correct. I’m working on it. Have been since about second grade. Middle school wasn’t pretty.

Anyway, I made a conscious decision to publicly lick my wounds with gentle humor. Everyone needs to laugh. Laughter is good medicine as long as it isn’t directed at someone. Humor is just what the doctor ordered.

Then I began referring to these wounds as my elephant. I mentioned to others my need to exercise the elephant, maybe by airlifting it to Zimbabwe (do they have elephants in Zimbabwe? I wouldn’t want mine to be lonely.) I started thinking about the humor in seeing my situation as an elephant.

As my tired body headed to bed last night, I noticed my hubby had the TV on (as always) and he was watching some nature show….on elephants.

Ironic, doncha think?

Then this morning, I glance down and see my Animal Spirit Guides book laying there beckoning me to read from it. And being as to how my elephant was born in part because of my obsessions with supernatural possibilities and communication with the Divine, I glanced up and said, “So, ya got somethin’ ya wanna tell me, eh?”

And I opened the book to the page on elephants. That many elephants in that short a time span said to me that there was something I needed to hear, and since they weren’t pink, I figured I hadn’t lost my mind completely yet.

If ELEPHANT shows up, it means:

Do not let anything stand in the way of attaining this goal that is so integral to your purpose.

Neither rain, snow, sleet, hail, elephants, or credit card debt shall stand in my way.

You have the determination and persistence required to overcome the current challenges you’re faced with.

Yes, Ma’am. Dem things on my head would be bull horns. Git outta my way.

Trust your senses, and if something in your life “smells” bad, take the necessary action to do away with it.

That would be referring to the elephant poo under my bed. Anybody got a big shovel?

Remain loyal to those closest to you in spite of anyone questioning their integrity.

Well, that would fit any number of situations, past or present.

It’s a good time to renew your sense of connectedness to the divine.

Uhm…yeah…that’s part of what birthed this elephant in the first place, but hey, anyone wanna take me to the mountains? Or maybe I’ll just enjoy a bit of farm worship.

Call on ELEPHANT when:

There are mental, emotional, or physical obstacles in your path that seem to block you from achieving your goals or following your mission.

Okay, Mr. Suffleupagus. (I had to look that one up!) I dialed your number already. That’s why we are here. (Is he an elephant or a mammoth? Close enough.)

You’re feeling tired, weak, or depressed and want more energy and vitality.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this.

You want to feel more confident.

Darn tootin’. (oooo…those smell like elephant poo!)

You want to increase your libido and encourage romantic feelings.

Hunky Farmer Boy might appreciate this even more!

You find yourself in a position of power and responsibility, one that requires you to be a strong and effective leader.

I think self-employed (aka jobless) qualifies me on this one.

If ELEPHANT is your power animal:

You have an insatiable hunger for knowledge and continually seek to understand things.

Check. See my transcripts if in doubt.

You’re at your best doing some kind of political or social work or otherwise being in a responsible position of public service.

EWWWWW. Got that dirty, nasty, smelly t-shirt. Took me 13 years to bust outta that jail. I’m layin’ low for a while… ’til death.

You have an innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating this whenever appropriate.

I’m getting this out of an animal spirit guide book, aren’t I? And that innate capacity for drawing on ancient wisdom and communicating is the sperm donor of this elephant I birthed.

You’re a passionate and uninhibited lover who’s quite able to please and satisfy your partner.

Sounds like a good question for Hunky Farmer Boy. Oops! He’s snoring. Guess that means I’m REAL good.

Once you set your mind to something, there’s nothing that will stop you from obtaining it.

Mom? Dad? Anyone wanna weigh in on this one? Stop laughing and shaking your head. Determination is a good thing. Bulldozing through concrete walls with my noggin’ is a noteworthy talent, don’t you think? Never mind the blood and concussions. That’d be some of my infamous collateral damage.

Okay….yeah….Definitely thinking the Big Power is telling me something.

The Strong Life Test: Teacher-Motivator

Yesterday Danielle LaPorte’s new digital book experience, The Firestarter Sessions became available for pre-release purchasing. Since I’m more or less a “spend every penny you’ve got” sorta gal, and since I had just made a small, yet adequate deposit into the massage business bank account, AND since I could justify/rationalize it as a business expense, I decided I NEEDED this book. Actually what I needed was a hefty dose of Danielle, and since she was handing over Chapter 3 with the advanced purchase, I played into her little plot to toy with my impatience.

I worked my way through her fun, engaging, and challenging material….right up to the collection of personality tests. I enjoy these things. I’ve seen a couple of them before, so they didn’t all grab my attention at once. This one, however, did. It’s called the Strong Life test. The questions were pretty straight forward, and it was free, so my criteria were met.

I took the test.

Then I hit the submit button.

Then it told me my fate.

My lead role is………………………………………………

TEACHER??????? Just shoot me now. I’m running away from that, remember?

Maybe my supporting role would be better.

Another drum role, please…………………………………


Okay, not so bad. I could handle playing the Stephen Covey part.

But still… I not about to escape that whole teacher/motivator job?

Yes and no.

Yes, I am escaping the confinement and rigidity of teaching in a formal school setting with all of it’s rules and regulations and state mandates and schedules and testing and politics. And actually, it isn’t the teaching I am escaping. It’s the desk. It’s the lack of teaching. It’s the lack of others really wanting to or having the opportunity to learn what I have to teach. It’s the lack of willingness to give time for learning what I have to teach. It’s the draining, life-sucking energy of the system.

The circumstances are what I am escaping.

No, I will never be able to escape the teacher/motivator in me. My sweet massage clients will attest to that. I rarely give a massage that doesn’t include SOME form of teaching and motivating. The kid that came to ask for my financial help with his dream will attest to that. (Sorry, Dude. If you are at least 2  years younger than me, you now do and always will qualify as a kid. That’s just how I roll.) He didn’t escape until I taught him some of my cool mojo. That sort of info is just too awesome to keep to myself.

What this means is I get to look for new ways to teach and motivate. It means I get to find things I truly love and share them whenever and wherever opportunity presents itself.

A couple of years ago, I went through a course called 48 Days to the Work You Love. There were, of course, lots of values evaluations. One activity included writing my own epitaph. Some have suggested it’s more like a eulogy in length, but it still accurately states how I want to be remembered.

Angie helped people feel great about themselves and develop their talents and abilities. She gave others courage and confidence when they had none to give themselves. She gave them health and hope and the knowledge to change their own lives, and in doing so, she created a legacy of health, wealth, and love for her family.

Hmm….I see a pattern here.

So what do you think? How am I gonna live this dream, this life purpose, without the confines of the public education system?

Personal trainer?

Private tutor?


Anything else?

Wound-Licking, Truth-Telling, and Under-the-Bed-Clearing

Four years ago, my spiritual life changed radically. Four years ago, much of what had always been constant, solid, and unchanging changed. Four years ago, feelings were hurt, heads were butted, and backs were turned. Four years ago, I had to step away from something rather than try to fix it. Apparently it wasn’t mine to fix.

For four years, I have told myself and others that all was for the best. I insisted that I had forgiven and that in fact, there really was nothing to forgive because all the players were part of a necessary series of events to bring about some very important changes in my life. For four years, I have insisted that I am doing fine and all is well. For four years, I have chosen to be somewhat cautious about what I say or write because it isn’t worth re-feeling and re-inflicting the inevitable pain that surrounds a series of events that HAD to happen in order for me to grow and be free.

Yet, if all is rocking along  just peachy, if all is forgiven and forgotten, if all is exactly as it is intended to be, if I AM in fact now free, why after four years did Ronna’s Detrick’s Renegade Conversation on Compliance and/or Exile leave my throat swollen shut and my eyes puffy and wet? Why did Trey Morgan‘s simple question find me tapping at my keyboard with intense vengeance and accusatory resentment? Why did Trey’s dream cause my mind to chatter as if on speed? Why did a sincere comment in response to my Easter Sunday post trigger emotion that isn’t supposed to exist at this point in the journey? Why can I be positive and upbeat about most everything else, but anything that even remotely relates to this elephant activates my claws and fangs (and pitchfork and pointy tail)?

Obviously I am still licking some wounds that I wanted to believe had healed.

Could it be that my wounds won’t heal until my truth is told? Is it possible to tell my truth without generating pain for others? Is it okay to sacrifice feelings and relationships in order to free myself from the festering wounds of my past?

Ronna sums things up quite well:

“This does not mean that the choice is easy. To reveal ourselves, to tell the truth, to live out loud, is difficult, painful, and sometimes downright excruciating. But so is the alternative: to remain hidden, silent, small. Even exile seems better than that!”

Stuffing everything under the bed has worked well to hide some emotional and spiritual baggage, but it hasn’t made it go away. In my experience with four girls and my own childhood bedroom, that pile under the bed just keeps growing and getting smelly…gross, yucky smelly. I think my current “under-the-bed-monster” has grown to the point it has begun grabbing for and attacking my ankles each time I am ready to crawl into a safe a cozy space to relax and feel at peace.

I don’t like feeling as if my ankles are being yanked out from under me and sucked into the muck as old wounds are being picked at and reopened.

I think it is time for me to clean out from under the bed, to extract the poison that has infected the wounds on my heart, and to wash it all clean and pure….. repent, for those who love that word….but not from what you might think. I’m going to repent for my silence.

I think it is time to tell my truth.

Can someone please get my island ready? …and make sure it’s well equipped.

Watching Man-History Repeat Itself–It's All Mom's Fault

Yesterday I confessed to the many love affairs I have had in my life. I have had the housekeeper, the gardener, the farmer, the construction foreman, the electrical engineer, and more. And yes, they are all the same guy, my sweet man of 20+ years.

One might say he’s quite multi-talented……or you might say he’s a tad schizophrenic, which could certainly be a possibility as the only member of the male species living with five women, two she-dogs, a very fertile mama cat, and 53 laying hens. The lone tom cat and two horses aren’t much help. The horses are geldings, and the tom cat is just….well….he’s just Fred….a lap layin’, whiny, spoiled, hairband fetchin’, anything-but-a-tom’s-tom cat. So yeah….schizophrenia is certainly a possibility.

My mom, of course read my blog. So nice to have the parentals among a blogger’s loyal fans, even if they are reading out of obligatory parental guilt and a desperate need for self-preservation. My mom–the sweet, shy, try-not-to-rock-any-boats mom–informed me in no uncertain terms that  according to my criteria, she has had way more professional types than I have. I, of course, had to defend my honor by mentioning all the roles my guy has played that I hadn’t had the forethought to capture on a memory card.

Then it hit me. It was HER FAULT I had ignored all those other guys in favor of this one. It was HER FAULT my man criteria included “fix a toilet without calling a plumber”. It was HER FAULT that no man who required the services of a Quick Oil Change car care center ever stayed on my list of potentials longer than two seconds.

It is HER FAULT that both my husband and my father stare at 40 year old broken dishwashers with a gleam in their eye thinking of all the useful life that still remains.

Then it hit me harder. Dear Jesus, my daughters are doomed! I know this because #2 has told me so. Her view of her dad has established her man-criteria. Like a treasured family heirloom, we have ever-so-faithfully passed down the expectation that our men must be able to do anything and everything and that such skill, such vast knowledge, such raw masculine talent is a pre-requisite for making the cut.

I am grateful that my girls see their daddy as a pattern for what they want in a man, because that means I’ll have cool sons-in-law. It also means maybe I won’t have to worry about them finding a guy too soon. I know they exist, but these women will have to hunt them down and that could take awhile. Those who can meet the criteria are spread out a little bit farther, and they are a bit fewer in numbers, but I feel pretty sure there are still some in existence.

And I’m just pretty sure that before it’s all said and done, my girls will point a finger at me one day and say, “It’s YOUR FAULT!”

When it happens, I’ll look them square in the eyes and say, “You are MOST welcome!”

Confessions of a Desperate Small Town Diva

You just can’t keep a secret in a small town. Someone will eventually find out and then you’re busted. So, I have a confession to make, because it is time to come clean, and I’d rather break the news myself than be outed by everyone else.

Wow. This is so…uh….embarrassing. How to begin?

Yeah….so…’s like this. I get around. I’m not the nice innocent girl everyone has always thought I was. You see, I’ve been ….ahem….enjoying….my support staff. I figure a picture is worth a thousand confessions, so right here, right now, in a public forum, I’m confessing my obsessions.

First, let me say, I can’t help myself. It’s not that I WANT to be unfaithful. It’s just…well….a woman has needs. So yes, even though I’m madly in love with this man,

My Hubby

I’ve also “been with” my housekeeper.

My Housekeeper

And quite honestly, I find certain construction guys just irresistibly sexy….well, just one. I confess to having stooped to the level of hanging out at the construction site and flirting with this guy in hopes of getting noticed….or something……  ;-) I’ve even helped hold up a few pieces of sheetrock and stuffed some insulation in key places to get his attention. I think the construction guy may have fathered a few of my children. Construction rocks my world!

My Construction Engineer

Oh….and the yardman. He’s just so luscious. What’s a middle-aged diva to do?

My Yardman


Except stare at this…….It’s tiny, butt oh so cute!

My Yardman's Tush

Oh yeah….there’s this farmer guy in town…well, on the edge of town. He’s got a big Tonka Toy that I really like……I’m talkin’ about the tractor, Sillies!

The Farmer's Tonka Toy


And then there’s my occasional fling with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. What can I say? I’m into fantasy and role play?????

Santa Claus

Okay, so I couldn’t get him to wear the bunny suit. What’s it to ya????

My pool boy is a bit camera shy and prefers to remain anonymous, but I’ll catch him before long. I bet you’ll recognize him.

OMG!!!!! I can’t believe I almost forgot the tv repairman and my electrical engineer!!!! There is just NOTHING sexier than a stud in a bucket truck wearing a tool belt full of squeeze-ons and crimping tools. Just sayin………

I think there may be a few others. A girl like me sometimes forgets after there have been so many.

Gosh…..I feel so much better now. Confession is good for the soul, isn’t it?

Celebrating Life, Spring, and My Hunky Farmer Boy

It’s Easter Sunday morning, and for probably the first time since I was conceived, I won’t be at an Easter church service.

It’s been almost a year since we went to church….any church. It’s nothing personal at this point. I’ve just got better things to do. That used to really bother me, and I guess on some level it still does. Yesterday, I mentioned it to my Hunky Farmer Boy, and he suggested (rather tongue in cheek) we could instead have Sunrise Services at the farm. I followed up by noting that it probably would be more like a high noon service, because I seriously doubted anyone in our house would be up by sunrise ‘cept me.

“Worship” at the farm and wellness center has become something I look forward to more than any church assembly. There isn’t typically a Bible to be found, nor is there a schedule for announcements, singin’, prayin’, preachin’, and fellowship dinner. There is sunshine, God’s beauty, gratitude, new life, and loads of love. There are usually two or more gathered (most likely me and Hunky Farmer Boy), and there is no doubt whose name we credit with giving us such peace and amazing blessings. And while tiny cups of grape juice and stale, pasty cracker pieces are no where to be found, communion is absolutely, positively happening.

Instead of a baptism, we’ll walk around layin’ hands on our new fruit trees, saying a prayer over them and sending divine light energy up through their roots. We’ll feed, water, and otherwise care for God’s creatures including a couple of old horses, a whole lotta chickens, and some overly lovey-dovey cats. We’ll even partake of God’s blessings by gathering eggs and picking deliciously fresh asparagus.

Then, after a long, sweaty, and dirty day of our style of worship, HFB and I will sit together and watch as the sky turns to the most incredible shades of orange, purple, and pink while the sun sets on the horizon.

Just before heading back to “the house”, if all goes well, I’ll catch Hunky Farmer Boy alone and we’ll appreciate God’s gifts just a bit more. If he’s really lucky, we’ll add our own chapter to the book of Song of Solomon.

Yep, it doesn’t get much more spiritual than Song of Solomon, even on Easter Sunday.

The Prayer is the Feeling, Not the Words

When I was a kid, say about ages 6 through….oh….37, I had a relationship with prayer that was….uhm…..less than spiritual. Actually, me and a girlfriend would usually sit together during church and (forgive me Father for I knew not what I do-ed) <embarrassment ensues> time them….with a watch….with a second hand, which wasn’t necessary because they were never seconds. They were eons. Brother X held the record during my timing career for the longest prayers ever. He was followed closely in second by Brother Y.

We had sermons shorter than those prayers….at least after Brother Z retired (who by the way was quite capable of challenging Brother X on the time thing, but since he was preaching, he only occasionally shared his prayer prowess with us….usually right before a fellowship dinner when my tummy was ready to reach up and rip out his vocal chords. :-). (God bless you for coming to us, Trey.)

Needless to say, I never really got the whole prayer thing. To them, I am certain it was a deeply moving spiritual link up to the Big Hard Drive in the sky. To me it was a contest to see who could cover every last sick, poor, aching, tragic person, situation, or sin the world has ever known, while thanking the Almighty for every good, right, law-abiding, finance-boosting event that had ever or would ever occur. Nope, I never got it. All I could see were the precious minutes of the last day of my two day weekly vacation slipping ever-so-slowing out of my grasp…er…watch.

To make matters worse, I had this screwed up belief that I was some how not Christian enough because, a. I timed prayers, and b. I couldn’t (or more like wouldn’t) spend a good three hours a day on my knees in a closet running down the list in hushed whisper tones, and c. if Iclosed my eyes and sat in a closet, I might miss what little social action was going on around me a gillion miles out in the boonies.

All I have to say to about that is I don’t think it was very nice of God to torture me like that for most of 40 years waiting on my slow, but trouble-making self to figure out how that prayer thing really works. Seriously? He could have enlightened me a LITTLE sooner and saved me all that horrible stress and guilt and grief that I spent three hours every day acknowledging on my knees in my closet. (Just kidding on that last part. See paragraph above, item c.)

Anyway, to make a long story longer and more tortuous (I learned it from those praying dudes), I think I am finally on the road to recovery. I have been reading about yogis lately, and I keep stumbling on quotes that say things like, “The prayer isn’t about what I say or chant or dance or whatever. Those are just the actions I take to get to the feeling that is the prayer.” Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, that was an exact quote from a really spiritual yogi dude exactly like he said it, complete with the “whatever” part. (Ok, maybe it isn’t a DIRECT quote, but one of ’em did say something sorta kinda like that.)

And of course, I still hadn’t figured out how to get to the FEELING part of prayer. But at least I sort of knew what I was looking for.

Then I read this woman’s Harlequin Romance Meets Green Acres: High Heels to Tractor Wheels story. Then I read most everything else on her blog…(except the cooking stuff….I’m just not ready to embrace the cooking thing right now. We’re dealing with spirit matters currently, and that’s all I can handle). But yeah……can you say STALKER??? I’d be really scared of people like me if I were her.

Anyways….I pretty much stalked the chaps off of her website (you gotta read it to figure out what that one is referencing), had some…ahem….special time with my farm boy (he loves it when I read/watch romance stuff), and then realized how calm and happy and giddy I was feeling having been reminded of my own love story and the back-to-the-land direction my life is taking.

And then it hit me…….that un-drug induced high I was on…..that stress-free-peaceful-easy-feelin’, the-sun-loves-me-and-the-moon-does-too, I-can-have-be-do-conquer-anything-in-or-out-of-this-world, (I could probably add “runners-high” here, but that does not and may not ever apply to me) feeling is what the yogi was talking about. Because in that state of being, thinking, feeling, every ounce of negativity, every speck of what-the-hell-have-I-done panic, every thought of not enough was gone. Only a peaceful gratitude remained.

Then it hit me….THAT is prayer.

People spend their whole lives searching for it. Some get addicted to drugs to experience it. I just stalked The Pioneer Woman for two days straight to get mine.

Okay Ree, you can add that to your list of expertise you didn’t know you had.

PS: For the record, Brothers X, Y, and Z were some awesome men who loved their Jesus with all their hearts. No disrespect is intended whatsoever in referencing them in this post. They taught me much in my lifetime, for which I am truly grateful.

A Perfect Evening Because I Said So

I am slowly figuring out that I am in complete control. I get to choose. I create the outcome. The emotion belongs only to me. I attach whichever response I desire. No one can make me do, feel, or say ANYTHING. It’s a very powerful place to be.

Along with this realization is the knowing that whatever happens is ALWAYS the best possible outcome, if I choose it to be. Recently my life has seen many opportunities to experience this concept. Yesterday was the latest in that recent string of wisdom-gaining adventures.

It had been eleven days since someone had scheduled a massage. That’s a bit unnerving for someone who has recently made the decision to leap from the security of a monthly paycheck to into a world of income determined by who-knows-what circumstances. And yet, I chose to see it as perfect knowing that when necessary, I will have exactly what I need. It was 11 days spent working on the wellness center, sprucing up the outside space, enjoy my family, resting my body, and more.

Then, within a few hours, I had three clients booked for the same evening. That’s perfect. Granted, it consumes the entire evening, and most of my energy, but oh the cash flow. Nice. A touch of panic, but still nice.

Then one client calls. Other things have come up that require her attention so she needs to reschedule. No problem. That’s life. It means that I get a delightful break between the first and third appointments. Now there will be time to transplant some of my tomato seedlings and wash the massage sheets. Sweet.

My first client arrives. She is new. I know her, but she has never really met me. Long story short, I was blessed. What a woman. What an example of taking a leap of faith because she knew it was the right thing to do. I was there to help her body heal, and yet, I think maybe she healed mine. That’s another story of its own. Because of the cancellation, I was able to spend extra time with her. Yes. I was definitely blessed.

The tomatoes beckoned. I figured out the funky transplant pots and got the little nightshades nestled in their new homes in time to deliver #2 daughter home from tennis and get back for the third scheduled massage. Preparations made. Sheets from previous massages were washed, dried, and folded. Candle lit for the expected client, and then…..nothing. She didn’t make it. I could have called her, but I didn’t. There will be another opportunity. It’s not like I turned someone down because that spot was full.  It’s not a big deal.

No, instead, I blew out the candle, locked the doors, grabbed my phone, and took off for my walk. The West Texas wind was finally calm and the evening was gorgeous. Thanks to the blessing of a missed appointment, I had the opportunity to take care of myself. I could have been upset, frustrated, annoyed, angry, resentful, etc., etc., etc. I chose none of those.

My three-massage evening after a dry spell had turned into one massage, and that one was technically a freebie given as an incentive in a previous promotion. As a result, I had a smörgåsbord of emotional responses from which to choose. I chose perfection. It feels so much better than most of the others. Had I known #3 wasn’t coming, I would have planned to work my tush off with hubby most likely. As it happened, I relaxed and took care of myself, my plants, and my space….alone….peacefully. It was a perfect way to end a Wednesday.

I came home and posted this as my Facebook status:

So awesome how even when things don’t go as planned, it’s still perfect in every way. I had the pleasure of meeting and working with the sweetest lady this afternoon. She even passed along kind words from another person thoroughly making my day. I was so blessed by the things she shared.

A long lost, newly found high school classmate commented with this:

(My wife) always says “I know it’s going to be OK, even if OK doesn’t look the way I think it should look.” I like that. I like that a lot.

Me too, Eric. Me, too. My evening was perfect, not because it went the way I thought it would or should go, but rather, because I said so.

That’s powerful stuff.

Who Decides Right and Wrong?

Sometimes it becomes necessary to analyze core beliefs as part of a pathway to wellness. Spiritual beliefs can have either positive or negative effects on our health. Therefore, this blog occasionally addresses spiritual beliefs.

A couple of days ago, I posted a comment on Facebook that triggered the question who decides what is right and what is wrong, specifically in terms of the Bible. I had suggested that the words of a public figure, who has positioned himself to be an influential spokesperson for conservative Americans, directed at a creative genius who has VERY different views were inappropriate behavior for someone who claims a connection with Divinity. The FB comment said there are lots of folks out there who are just Biblically wrong.

Wow…such a thought provoking statement. I was grateful for the opportunity to think through this part of my own faith.

One of my biggest issues is in deciding what “Bibilically wrong” really is. I’m probably only speaking about myself, but my views of what that is came from people (preachers, teachers, youth ministers, etc.) whose objective was to train me up to think exactly like them. Other kids were learning something else, while I was being taught that they were wrong. Same God, same Bible, same head hauncho (Jesus), but we were right and they were wrong and they were “lost”. That position has softened a bit, but it is still applied when it is convenient and benefits the position.

What if the far out ideas of people like Avatar and Titanic director James Cameron aren’t wrong, but are in fact more right than anything we’ve ever allowed ourselves to believe possible? What if we are limiting possibilities because of the way we choose to interpret the Bible?  Jesus was one of those with some pretty far out ideas that didn’t jive with the paradigm of the time. For that matter, he was as “Torah-ly wrong” as anyone could get: Healing on the Sabbath, picking grains of wheat from the field on the Sabbath, and claiming to be the son of God. Look what it got him, compliments of the keepers of right and wrong. The same scenario has been repeated throughout history anytime someone’s words, deeds, and actions didn’t fit the religious views of the time.

It seems we often forget that as humanity, we are all one—one body, one spirit, one Divinity, and actions taken to attack one is an attack on ourselves. I no longer believe that the “One Body” reference applied only to those who have followed a prescribed series of steps culminating in their being added to the Body. They may be a wetter, cleaner, better-smelling body part, but their being “added” is irrelevant since they always were a part of the whole which was God created and Spirit indwelled.

So when a person who calls himself Christian attacks, even jokingly, another person who dares question or criticize the traditions, beliefs, and manuscripts we have chosen to accept as divinely inspired (which ironically differ from the divinely inspired documents of similar religions–who is right?), it is essentially cannibalism and I believe may ultimately result in us destroying ourselves and our world. We won’t have to worry about a judgment day. We’ll just continue attacking anyone who chooses to see things differently, and eventually, like cancer, we will consume ourselves right out of existence.

Frankly, we will probably get to repeat this process until we figure it out and get it right. As for Blibical right an wrong, there are only two commands: Love the Lord and love your neighbor as yourself. In my opinion, everything else is subjective or simply historical.

Peace and love to you.

It Just Popped Out

This post from Unabashedly Female was too good to keep to myself. Be sure to read the poem. It is so beautiful with such vivid imagery regarding love of life. Enjoy.

It Just Popped Out

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