My dad was in the US. Air Force for something like two decades. Stationed in Guam, with all that tropical heat and humidity, mom and dad germinated and bloomed me. It makes me sound like an eggplant. But before it was "all about me," there were other things.
I suppose it would be the traditional thing to do, to focus on dad's service -- what he did, where he went, what rank he achieved before retirement. But those things did not impact our family nearly as much as the more elemental reality that in his service, his life took a different path, and that path intersected with different lives, and the connections he made changed everything.
My father served his country and in doing so, the position served him. It was a bridge out of a difficult childhood. He lied about his age to get in. And this opened a window to completely different worlds, places he still remembers and speaks of. It was admission into a brotherhood, an exclusive club he shares with an ever dwindling population of little old men - who always manage to crop up. Mom often shares with me how he gets wrapped up in conversation with some complete stranger, with that shared experience.
If not for the military, my dad would probably have never come to Georgia, would have never met my mother. I imagine how different their lives would have been without each other.
Put that way, I'll be honest, I compare this with my own life. How many times have I gone with the flow, and spent my energy trying to be content with whatever fell in my lap? How about this? When special situations lead you to explore outside your confined arena, maybe that wasn't a blip on the radar screen. Maybe that wasn't the anamoly in your life - quickly experienced, quickly dismissed as not part of your life. Maybe that WAS. YOUR. LIFE. Maybe you should grab it, even if it seems a little out of your reach.
It was true for my dad.
So, happy memorial day. I hope some day that your memories include some special moments, when unique events and new paths changed your life for the best.
--Laura
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
guam: one
Mom recently sent me home with some items from their/our days in Guam. Among these was a calendar, targeted at new visitors to the island. This was a large and growing population during those years, as the military population increased at the base in Agana.
At any rate, I thought the opening welcome for this calendar, written in 1971, was interesting. Read along:
Hafa Adai! Welcome to Guam!
To the visitor of a few days – relax, slow down, and take a leisurely look at the island which local legend says is the center and beginning of the world. If you don’t see it all on this trip you can look at the rest of it the next time you return – and we hope you will.
To the visitor who will be here perhaps months or years – relax, slow down, and get accustomed to this nature-decorated ex-volcano. You’ll have plenty of time later to grouch about what man has done to it since. Please don’t make the mistake of just taking a quick trip around the whole island the week you arrive and another the week you leave two years later. You’ll miss everything, including the people, if you don’t slow down long enough to say hello.
You will find this island community a fascinating place if first you toss out about ninety percent of your pre-conceptions of what a tropical island ought to be. They might be true of the other islands, but not Guam.
We all realize that most of you newcomers are here for a purpose, or, if you will, a mission: National or world affecting. We respect this and try not to hinder or interfere. We hope the respect works both ways.
A foreign-flavored island, Guam is. A foreign country it is not! Guam is officially known as an unincorporated Territory of the United States, meaning that while it is not one of the fifty states, and residents don't yet vote in national elections, it still belongs part and parcel to the USA (Right down to the tax system). Guamanians and Chamorros, who have given much to their country in lives, land, and loyalty, highly resent any inference they are not wholly American.
You will find that the island has many flavors other than the original Chamorro. Spanish, Philippine, Japanese, Chinese and Malaysian are all reflected in one way or another in customs, cultures, foods, dress, names and spirit. Perhaps all these together are what account, rather than the bad roads and island-wide 45 mph speed limit, for Guam’s seeming reluctance to get too caught up in the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world.
An important point — your hometown Guam is not. To this observer of fifteen years it has become apparent that a good deal of the newcomer’s discontent with Guam is that he or she expects it to be ANYTOWN, USA. A realization that the island has in its not too distant history a heritage which is not USA in outlook, and which over a period of centuries has evolved customs which the island does not particularly want to lose, will make it easier for you.
More of a willingness to accept Guam for what it is, not what you were expecting or think it should be, will make your stay here more pleasant. God willing, it may make you want to stay a little longer.
Perhaps this calendar, a kind of diary of your time on Guam, will add to your understanding and your enjoyment of the island, I hope so.
The recipes you will read, and I hope use, are both Guamanian and Filipino. They show the rich Spanish heritage of both, but some are purely tropical in nature. Since most are common to both Guam and the Philippines I have written the recipe as I learned to cook it, making little distinction as to origin except in those included o show variation or as a matter of general information.
You will find both fiesta or holiday dishes here, as well as a good many every day dishes. For the most part, they are basic in preparation and ingredients, and can be added to to stretch or make fancier. To the old-timer these methods of preparation may seem comically detailed and probably over-Anglicized, but to the newcomer who has never seen Pancit or Red Rice they will be necessary.
I want to express my gratitude to all those who, at one time or another, have taken the time and patience to tell me interesting things about the people, customs and food of Guam and the Philippines, especially Agueda & Emilie Johnston, Remedios L.G. Perez, Janice Beaty, Paul Souder, Msgr. Jose A Lean Guerrero, Eduina and Manuel Jose, Joe Peralta, and my husband, Ben, who has read, advised, and tasted — and not laughed too much.
Si Juus Maase!
Montie M. Protasio
Copyright, 1971, by Montie M. Protasio
All rights reserved
Si Yu'us ma'ase,
Laura
At any rate, I thought the opening welcome for this calendar, written in 1971, was interesting. Read along:
Hafa Adai! Welcome to Guam!
To the visitor of a few days – relax, slow down, and take a leisurely look at the island which local legend says is the center and beginning of the world. If you don’t see it all on this trip you can look at the rest of it the next time you return – and we hope you will.
To the visitor who will be here perhaps months or years – relax, slow down, and get accustomed to this nature-decorated ex-volcano. You’ll have plenty of time later to grouch about what man has done to it since. Please don’t make the mistake of just taking a quick trip around the whole island the week you arrive and another the week you leave two years later. You’ll miss everything, including the people, if you don’t slow down long enough to say hello.
You will find this island community a fascinating place if first you toss out about ninety percent of your pre-conceptions of what a tropical island ought to be. They might be true of the other islands, but not Guam.
We all realize that most of you newcomers are here for a purpose, or, if you will, a mission: National or world affecting. We respect this and try not to hinder or interfere. We hope the respect works both ways.
A foreign-flavored island, Guam is. A foreign country it is not! Guam is officially known as an unincorporated Territory of the United States, meaning that while it is not one of the fifty states, and residents don't yet vote in national elections, it still belongs part and parcel to the USA (Right down to the tax system). Guamanians and Chamorros, who have given much to their country in lives, land, and loyalty, highly resent any inference they are not wholly American.
You will find that the island has many flavors other than the original Chamorro. Spanish, Philippine, Japanese, Chinese and Malaysian are all reflected in one way or another in customs, cultures, foods, dress, names and spirit. Perhaps all these together are what account, rather than the bad roads and island-wide 45 mph speed limit, for Guam’s seeming reluctance to get too caught up in the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world.
An important point — your hometown Guam is not. To this observer of fifteen years it has become apparent that a good deal of the newcomer’s discontent with Guam is that he or she expects it to be ANYTOWN, USA. A realization that the island has in its not too distant history a heritage which is not USA in outlook, and which over a period of centuries has evolved customs which the island does not particularly want to lose, will make it easier for you.
More of a willingness to accept Guam for what it is, not what you were expecting or think it should be, will make your stay here more pleasant. God willing, it may make you want to stay a little longer.
Perhaps this calendar, a kind of diary of your time on Guam, will add to your understanding and your enjoyment of the island, I hope so.
The recipes you will read, and I hope use, are both Guamanian and Filipino. They show the rich Spanish heritage of both, but some are purely tropical in nature. Since most are common to both Guam and the Philippines I have written the recipe as I learned to cook it, making little distinction as to origin except in those included o show variation or as a matter of general information.
You will find both fiesta or holiday dishes here, as well as a good many every day dishes. For the most part, they are basic in preparation and ingredients, and can be added to to stretch or make fancier. To the old-timer these methods of preparation may seem comically detailed and probably over-Anglicized, but to the newcomer who has never seen Pancit or Red Rice they will be necessary.
I want to express my gratitude to all those who, at one time or another, have taken the time and patience to tell me interesting things about the people, customs and food of Guam and the Philippines, especially Agueda & Emilie Johnston, Remedios L.G. Perez, Janice Beaty, Paul Souder, Msgr. Jose A Lean Guerrero, Eduina and Manuel Jose, Joe Peralta, and my husband, Ben, who has read, advised, and tasted — and not laughed too much.
Si Juus Maase!
Montie M. Protasio
Copyright, 1971, by Montie M. Protasio
All rights reserved
Si Yu'us ma'ase,
Laura
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
hair and other things
For some, summer is their favorite time of year. That is not me. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to live in the mountains. Instead, I lived near southern waters. With southern waters comes humid summers.
Have I told you about my hair? I have fine, thick hair. It's possibly the worst follicular combination available to the human head. If humidity rises above 50%, I resemble Orphan Annie. No, this is not true. Her curls are controlled. My curls expand. Additionally, I have a cowlick over my right eyebrow. So right over my eyebrow is a flipped, frizzy, turbo apostrophe. The hotter it gets outside, the bigger this punctuation mark gets. So, like Colonel Sanders with boobs and an apostrophe.
Colorado was a welcome respite from this summer dread. Yes, my hair was straight as a board. I didn't mind one bit. It became faithful - I always knew where it would be. Boring was hair bliss.
Now don't get me wrong. I've evolved. I think grooming is important. There's no reason to have a piece of crap on your head. If you look like you just woke up and you didn't, maybe you need a stylist. When I return, the first thing I'm going to do is locate a hair stylist who can do something with my hair. No more Great Clips for me.
But I can't wait for my summers of joy. Straight haired-joy. I'm not going to fret about it now, when humidity is working against me. So in what, with luck, is my last summer in the south, I have cut my hair shorter. And I'm planting every possible vegetable in the garden. I want to look back on my last summer and say I got a lot out of my yard, that I enjoyed the things I grew and didn't worry about my hair.
-Laura
Have I told you about my hair? I have fine, thick hair. It's possibly the worst follicular combination available to the human head. If humidity rises above 50%, I resemble Orphan Annie. No, this is not true. Her curls are controlled. My curls expand. Additionally, I have a cowlick over my right eyebrow. So right over my eyebrow is a flipped, frizzy, turbo apostrophe. The hotter it gets outside, the bigger this punctuation mark gets. So, like Colonel Sanders with boobs and an apostrophe.
Colorado was a welcome respite from this summer dread. Yes, my hair was straight as a board. I didn't mind one bit. It became faithful - I always knew where it would be. Boring was hair bliss.
Now don't get me wrong. I've evolved. I think grooming is important. There's no reason to have a piece of crap on your head. If you look like you just woke up and you didn't, maybe you need a stylist. When I return, the first thing I'm going to do is locate a hair stylist who can do something with my hair. No more Great Clips for me.
But I can't wait for my summers of joy. Straight haired-joy. I'm not going to fret about it now, when humidity is working against me. So in what, with luck, is my last summer in the south, I have cut my hair shorter. And I'm planting every possible vegetable in the garden. I want to look back on my last summer and say I got a lot out of my yard, that I enjoyed the things I grew and didn't worry about my hair.
-Laura
Sunday, May 23, 2010
lower than dirt
I need a BB gun - a quiet, high-powered BB gun. I also need the skill to field dress a dead squirrel. Why? Because I hate squirrels. And if I could kill a dozen in my yard, the neighbhorhood wouldn't miss them.
I bet they'd taste great. They've fattened themselves on sunflower seeds. There is one squirrel in my neighborhood that's so fat, he can barely jump along the fenceline, and can barely go from the fence to the outbuilding all the rats use to jump into their tree colony.
They would be good with cornbread.
By the way, I welcome any and all emails with suggestions for discouraging the little critters.
--Laura
I bet they'd taste great. They've fattened themselves on sunflower seeds. There is one squirrel in my neighborhood that's so fat, he can barely jump along the fenceline, and can barely go from the fence to the outbuilding all the rats use to jump into their tree colony.
They would be good with cornbread.
By the way, I welcome any and all emails with suggestions for discouraging the little critters.
--Laura
Saturday, May 22, 2010
good things
I think it's good when narcississtic people date. When someone is self-absorbed, they should be teamed with the same kind of person, so they won't hurt each other's feelings. If all they are doing is taking from each other to fill themselves up, they will never feel taken advantage of.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
reminders of humanity
Last Saturday was my weekend to cantor. Unfortunately, one of my coworkers became ill with Bronchitis. I'm pretty sure that I got it as well, riding on the coat tails of my encounter with poison ivy.
But I was feeling better. I had practiced all day. The songs were all familiar. I didn't sound great. But people have assured me that even when I sound Not Great, it is better than some alternatives.
Well, the mass began. And that's when I realized that it was ungodly hot in the house of God. And it wasn't just me; others were glistening in the pews. But as I broke into the opening hymn, I felt my sick lungs close up. Breathing in order to pass a tune through swollen nasal passages is harder than just breathing.
I felt myself begin to sweat. I felt the sweat dripping down the small of my back. I thought momentarily what would happen if I passed out in front of all those people. Would they think I had been slain in the spirit?
There's a point in the order of the mass when it's appropriate, if necessary, to leave. This is what you have to do. You have to lead the opening hymn, then lead the Penitential Rite and the Gloria in the appropriate places. Then you have your big solo which is the Psalm, sung between the 1st and 2nd reading. When the 2nd reading is complete, you sing an Alleluia to announce the Gospel reading.
Then you have time to leave, because the priest is going to give his homily. And if you REALLY need a moment, you're safe until the Prayer of the Faithful end, because you've got to be back to sing the Offertory Hymn.
Knowing this, I headed for the bathroom to dry off. I pulled out some tissue, drank some water from the faucet, and went to the bathroom.
Which is when the toilet clogged. In the middle of mass.
I evaluated the situation. The prayers hadn't yet started, but they would. And I'd leave an overflowing toilet. I looked outside. There was no plunger. I pulled the plastic liner from the trash can next to the toilet and used it to fish out the toilet paper. Yes, with my plastic coated hand.
Which is when the toilet magically unclogged itself and flushed. AFTER I had used my hand to pull toilet paper out. I can't emphasize this enough. It couldn't right itself before I did this, in order to save someone else the heinous task of plunging a public toilet.
I washed my hands. A lot. And returned to mass. And led the Offertory Hymn. And no one else knew. Well, until now.
There's no higher purpose in telling this story. It was a bad evening. I had my hand in a public toilet and people probably saw my sweaty butt as I bowed to the altar.
Some days, you just aren't going to make it through gracefully. But you'll make it through, and I think you get extra points for it too.
--Laura
But I was feeling better. I had practiced all day. The songs were all familiar. I didn't sound great. But people have assured me that even when I sound Not Great, it is better than some alternatives.
Well, the mass began. And that's when I realized that it was ungodly hot in the house of God. And it wasn't just me; others were glistening in the pews. But as I broke into the opening hymn, I felt my sick lungs close up. Breathing in order to pass a tune through swollen nasal passages is harder than just breathing.
I felt myself begin to sweat. I felt the sweat dripping down the small of my back. I thought momentarily what would happen if I passed out in front of all those people. Would they think I had been slain in the spirit?
There's a point in the order of the mass when it's appropriate, if necessary, to leave. This is what you have to do. You have to lead the opening hymn, then lead the Penitential Rite and the Gloria in the appropriate places. Then you have your big solo which is the Psalm, sung between the 1st and 2nd reading. When the 2nd reading is complete, you sing an Alleluia to announce the Gospel reading.
Then you have time to leave, because the priest is going to give his homily. And if you REALLY need a moment, you're safe until the Prayer of the Faithful end, because you've got to be back to sing the Offertory Hymn.
Knowing this, I headed for the bathroom to dry off. I pulled out some tissue, drank some water from the faucet, and went to the bathroom.
Which is when the toilet clogged. In the middle of mass.
I evaluated the situation. The prayers hadn't yet started, but they would. And I'd leave an overflowing toilet. I looked outside. There was no plunger. I pulled the plastic liner from the trash can next to the toilet and used it to fish out the toilet paper. Yes, with my plastic coated hand.
Which is when the toilet magically unclogged itself and flushed. AFTER I had used my hand to pull toilet paper out. I can't emphasize this enough. It couldn't right itself before I did this, in order to save someone else the heinous task of plunging a public toilet.
I washed my hands. A lot. And returned to mass. And led the Offertory Hymn. And no one else knew. Well, until now.
There's no higher purpose in telling this story. It was a bad evening. I had my hand in a public toilet and people probably saw my sweaty butt as I bowed to the altar.
Some days, you just aren't going to make it through gracefully. But you'll make it through, and I think you get extra points for it too.
--Laura
Friday, May 14, 2010
narcissism
Seriously, enjoy your life. I'm glad you're happy and well-adjusted and getting on well and everything. Does the world need to know each and every detail? Seriously.
-Laura
-Laura
Monday, May 10, 2010
i want you to be happy
I think that's one of the most loaded comments I've ever heard. I want you to be happy.
You have to listen to it in context. Possible qualifiers include:
Because you're not making me happy, but...
Because I can't figure out why you're doing this, but if you can live with the outcome...
Because I just don't get you at all...
Or, most inncently, I know you're not happy now, so... do what will make you happy, because...
I want you to be happy...
I think part of the reason I find the comment so loaded is because it's common for me to gauge my happiness by how others feel. In other words, if the people around me are comfortable and happy, so am I. Does this sound like the perfect recipe for becoming a doormat? Maybe. I think for me, it has become a way to give control to others for something I don't feel I can figure out on my own. What makes me happy? Darned if I know. Am I supposed to keep walk away from things that don't make me happy until I find what does?
I don't think so.
I think finding out what makes you happy involves shifting that energy I've used listening to others and listen to myself. Do I like the job I have, for example? Why? Why not? If the people at work are happy with you, that doesn't have to mean that you're happy. If your employer doesn't want to have to find or train another You, that shouldn't be reason enough to happy with your job. It would make sense that by now, they are comfortable with you. While you may not be a perfect fit for them either, you're filling the role you're supposed to fill. So, entertain the idea that there's someone out there who's a better fit for that role, and there's something out there that you'd be happier with too.
I'm getting closer each day to making a happiness move. It's been hard to stick it out until I could do so without putting myself in financial jeopardy. The rewards, however, have been significant. I hope they will be longlasting and fruitful.
I want to be happy, not because everyone else around me is happy with me. For myself.
-Laura
You have to listen to it in context. Possible qualifiers include:
Because you're not making me happy, but...
Because I can't figure out why you're doing this, but if you can live with the outcome...
Because I just don't get you at all...
Or, most inncently, I know you're not happy now, so... do what will make you happy, because...
I want you to be happy...
I think part of the reason I find the comment so loaded is because it's common for me to gauge my happiness by how others feel. In other words, if the people around me are comfortable and happy, so am I. Does this sound like the perfect recipe for becoming a doormat? Maybe. I think for me, it has become a way to give control to others for something I don't feel I can figure out on my own. What makes me happy? Darned if I know. Am I supposed to keep walk away from things that don't make me happy until I find what does?
I don't think so.
I think finding out what makes you happy involves shifting that energy I've used listening to others and listen to myself. Do I like the job I have, for example? Why? Why not? If the people at work are happy with you, that doesn't have to mean that you're happy. If your employer doesn't want to have to find or train another You, that shouldn't be reason enough to happy with your job. It would make sense that by now, they are comfortable with you. While you may not be a perfect fit for them either, you're filling the role you're supposed to fill. So, entertain the idea that there's someone out there who's a better fit for that role, and there's something out there that you'd be happier with too.
I'm getting closer each day to making a happiness move. It's been hard to stick it out until I could do so without putting myself in financial jeopardy. The rewards, however, have been significant. I hope they will be longlasting and fruitful.
I want to be happy, not because everyone else around me is happy with me. For myself.
-Laura
Sunday, May 9, 2010
mothers
I post today with possibly the worst headache I've had in ages. On Wednesday, as I stood outside at my newly revealed fenceline, I remember a tingling feeling along my legs. I told my mom I thought a bunch of spiders bit me.
I was wrong. I need to learn to distinguish spiders from the first sign of an allergic reaction to poison ivy. Which I got all over my face and neck. And into my left eye, which caused some major congestion. On Saturday at the After Hours clinic, I was given a cortisone shot for the immediate problem, followed by a round of antihistamines and prednisone.
It will get worse every year, or I will get better at recognizing the difference between a spider bite and a reaction. Those are about my only choices.
I'm also writing this at the conclusion of a memorable visit with my mother, who is possibly the neatest old lady I know. For two weeks, she gave me a gentle sorting out. And I liked it. Gardens were weeded, herbs were planted, vegetables and flowers were planted, branches were burned, potting soil was purchased, along with raised beds. Conversations were enjoyed, food was cooked, my kitchen was reorganized for a short person.
Memories were made. My mother even had a few slumber parties with friends here.
I think should have had stayed another week if she hadn't wanted to see the new floors back home (tile and hardwood).
So Friday night, I took her home. Saturday morning, mom and dad drove me to get my shots, and Saturday afternoon I crapped out in the guest bedroom, drugged out of my mind.
And now I'm home. And it's a little lonely. But I am definitely much better sorted out than before. I have my mom to thank for it. So to her and to all the other gentle sorters out there - Happy Mother's Day from those who gratefully accept your minstrations.
--Laura
I was wrong. I need to learn to distinguish spiders from the first sign of an allergic reaction to poison ivy. Which I got all over my face and neck. And into my left eye, which caused some major congestion. On Saturday at the After Hours clinic, I was given a cortisone shot for the immediate problem, followed by a round of antihistamines and prednisone.
It will get worse every year, or I will get better at recognizing the difference between a spider bite and a reaction. Those are about my only choices.
I'm also writing this at the conclusion of a memorable visit with my mother, who is possibly the neatest old lady I know. For two weeks, she gave me a gentle sorting out. And I liked it. Gardens were weeded, herbs were planted, vegetables and flowers were planted, branches were burned, potting soil was purchased, along with raised beds. Conversations were enjoyed, food was cooked, my kitchen was reorganized for a short person.
Memories were made. My mother even had a few slumber parties with friends here.
I think should have had stayed another week if she hadn't wanted to see the new floors back home (tile and hardwood).
So Friday night, I took her home. Saturday morning, mom and dad drove me to get my shots, and Saturday afternoon I crapped out in the guest bedroom, drugged out of my mind.
And now I'm home. And it's a little lonely. But I am definitely much better sorted out than before. I have my mom to thank for it. So to her and to all the other gentle sorters out there - Happy Mother's Day from those who gratefully accept your minstrations.
--Laura
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
need a new religion
I respect the old adage about never discussing politics or religion in mixed company. I think I avoid both for the same reason -- I don't expect humans to be perfect, so I don't make promises for others. I don't boast about how good OTHERS are. I know how hard it is to be good myself.
Having said that, I'm Roman Catholic. I converted over 10 years ago.
And I'm writing because my church disappoints me. I know there are plenty out there who'd respond with, "it took you long enough." To that, I would only ask for some deference; if you know me, you know that I do not push beliefs on others, so I think it's reasonable for me to request the same. In the past, the church has been a source of comfort, instruction, community and support for me. Would I have those things without it? Possibly. As it happens, I don't need to find out.
However, when you love someone but never hold them accountable for their actions because you fear how that would impact the relationship, that's not love. The element of fear unbalances it. By the same token, for some time now I have been attending my local church, taking communion during weekend mass, yet feeling so dismayed by the Roman leadership. It's time to say something. Perhaps past time. But it is my obligation. So here goes. I disagree.
I disagree... with my church's stance with Protestant and other christian churches, denying them both equal status and us the promise of intercommunion. I disagree... with my church's stance with Jews and Muslims, discounting all history not fitting neatly into the church's view of itself... with the church's position in Africa, toward contraception and HIV/AIDS... with the church's position on evolution and stem cell research.
The church is turning in on itself, an embattled entity circling the wagons. More ominously, a snake swallowing its own tail. Truly endangered, I think, is the ability to call for or enact reform. A body which does no self-examination, no self-reflection, is destined for corruption. And as a result, I disagree with the terrible isolation this is creating for the thousands of priests and religious who operate in a vacuum everyday, overtaxed and under supported emotionally, financially and spiritually.
My church isn't headed for corruption. It is there. We are not living a a new era of conservatism. I may not agree with the basic tenets of conservatism, but I can respect it. It holds an internal consistency and logic. It stands for something. What is happening is something different, operating under the guise of comforting conservatism, but with no consistency, operating solely for the purpose of protecting and preserving itself.
That description is strikingly similar to the one you'd use to describe a cornered animal.
Hans Kung calls this a collapse of trust. He is right. He is right.
You may be asking why I'm writing about it, and why I don't just leave. If you don't like cable, you cancel your subscription. Here's the thing though, my faith isn't just about what it does for me. It's about what I do with it too, and what expressing my gifts does for both the greater good and myself. Walking away says I don't care. And I do care. I'm ashamed of all this crap, quite frankly. Having people in my life to hold me accountable makes me a better person. So why is my church exempt? Why is it hellbent on the desire to cut itself off from all who would call its actions into question and hold it accountable? We were supposed to be on this trip together. When did the Vicar of Christ remember his other nickname: God's Unworthy Servant?
So here's the thing. I'm saying something, to express frustration, to learn if I'm the only one out here who feels this way. I'm saying something because the church is wrong. I'm saying something because saying something is right.
If you don't care about the topic, I appreciate your patience, and thank you for listening. If you care, I hope you will tell me that too -- whether you agree with me or not. I need community.
--Laura
Having said that, I'm Roman Catholic. I converted over 10 years ago.
And I'm writing because my church disappoints me. I know there are plenty out there who'd respond with, "it took you long enough." To that, I would only ask for some deference; if you know me, you know that I do not push beliefs on others, so I think it's reasonable for me to request the same. In the past, the church has been a source of comfort, instruction, community and support for me. Would I have those things without it? Possibly. As it happens, I don't need to find out.
However, when you love someone but never hold them accountable for their actions because you fear how that would impact the relationship, that's not love. The element of fear unbalances it. By the same token, for some time now I have been attending my local church, taking communion during weekend mass, yet feeling so dismayed by the Roman leadership. It's time to say something. Perhaps past time. But it is my obligation. So here goes. I disagree.
I disagree... with my church's stance with Protestant and other christian churches, denying them both equal status and us the promise of intercommunion. I disagree... with my church's stance with Jews and Muslims, discounting all history not fitting neatly into the church's view of itself... with the church's position in Africa, toward contraception and HIV/AIDS... with the church's position on evolution and stem cell research.
The church is turning in on itself, an embattled entity circling the wagons. More ominously, a snake swallowing its own tail. Truly endangered, I think, is the ability to call for or enact reform. A body which does no self-examination, no self-reflection, is destined for corruption. And as a result, I disagree with the terrible isolation this is creating for the thousands of priests and religious who operate in a vacuum everyday, overtaxed and under supported emotionally, financially and spiritually.
My church isn't headed for corruption. It is there. We are not living a a new era of conservatism. I may not agree with the basic tenets of conservatism, but I can respect it. It holds an internal consistency and logic. It stands for something. What is happening is something different, operating under the guise of comforting conservatism, but with no consistency, operating solely for the purpose of protecting and preserving itself.
That description is strikingly similar to the one you'd use to describe a cornered animal.
Hans Kung calls this a collapse of trust. He is right. He is right.
You may be asking why I'm writing about it, and why I don't just leave. If you don't like cable, you cancel your subscription. Here's the thing though, my faith isn't just about what it does for me. It's about what I do with it too, and what expressing my gifts does for both the greater good and myself. Walking away says I don't care. And I do care. I'm ashamed of all this crap, quite frankly. Having people in my life to hold me accountable makes me a better person. So why is my church exempt? Why is it hellbent on the desire to cut itself off from all who would call its actions into question and hold it accountable? We were supposed to be on this trip together. When did the Vicar of Christ remember his other nickname: God's Unworthy Servant?
So here's the thing. I'm saying something, to express frustration, to learn if I'm the only one out here who feels this way. I'm saying something because the church is wrong. I'm saying something because saying something is right.
If you don't care about the topic, I appreciate your patience, and thank you for listening. If you care, I hope you will tell me that too -- whether you agree with me or not. I need community.
--Laura
Monday, May 3, 2010
the zuraw wagon
One of the most prestigious displays at the Foxfire museum, the Zuraw wagon is documented as the only surviving wagon to have traveled the Trail of Tears in the late 1830s. Some facts about the wagon:
- It was built in the 1700's (don't you wish your car lasted that long)
- It's known as a Pennsylvania Dutch freight wagon
- It's also known as a Tar Grinder, because wooden wheel hubs were lubricated with a tar-line substance made from pine sap
- It measured 9 feet, 6 inches long
The first recognized owner was Green B. Daves (1803-1880). A North Carolina native, Daves moved to Sevierville, Tennessee as a child. As an adult, he moved to Fannin County, Georgia. Later, he contracted with the U.S. Army to move the Cherokees from Georgia on the Trail of Tears.
The wagon traveled all the way to the Rocky Mountains before being permanently retired in Georgia. Upon Green's death, the wagon passed to his son, Joseph Daves (1831-1908). Joseph's daughter Alice inherited the wagon. She was the wife of Landon Pickelsimer, and they moved to Cartersville, Georgia, where they lived into the mid 1950's. Their son, John, inherited the wagon when Landon died. When John moved from Cartersville to Atlanta, he gave the wagon to Retta Pickelsimer Zuraw, who was Landon's niece. In 1975, she donated the wagon to the Foxfire Museum.
According to Cherokee records, 701 wagons were used on the Trail of Tears. This wagon and others were most likely used to haul supplies, or transport those too young, too old or too sick to walk on their own. More than 14,000 people were part of the six-month, 2,200 mile journey that began in October of 1838. More than 4,000 people perished.
---Laura
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