My Epileptic Laptop

A couple months ago, my one-year-old laptop suffered a – well, a traumatic injury (okay, I spilled milk on it). I performed all the emergency medical care that I could, but damage was inevitable. I'm grateful it works at all. But now, just like I do, my laptop has epileptic seizures. I don't remember who spilled milk on me.

Most days, it works just fine, processing information, saving memory, performing tasks, and running programs. But once in a while, without any sort of warning, it stops in the middle of whatever is happening and just instantly crashes into a display of multi-colored static. Nothing can restore the function except shutting it down for a few minutes and restarting it. It doesn't matter how important the function was that was happening at the moment of the seizure – there is no getting it to restore until the seizure is over and the hardware has recovered. I am fortunate that these particular seizures do not seem to cause any permanent physical damage.

If I'm lucky, this only happens once in a while. But there are some days when the seizures happen over and over again. I try to restart after each one, perhaps increasing the recovery time. Sometimes if I try enough times, function is restored and I can resume work. But sometimes, there is just no recovering that day, for whatever unknown reason...the temperature? Humidity in the air? The type of program that was running? Something in the video processing function? I'll never know.

Sometimes I think of it as a minor annoyance. Other days it is maddening. Once in a while, it ruins a whole day or two, wasting whatever tasks might have been completed in that valuable time.

Imagine if this were my work computer. How effective my work would be, which takes place about 90 percent of the time on the computer, if several days per month the hardware just suddenly collapsed into a mess of illogical visual snow, giving me no time to save my work, back up my hard drive, or ask for assistance? Interrupting Facebook posts is one matter, but losing all the edits in a 110-page engineering report is another matter altogether.

I could scrap it and buy a new one, but like I said, most of the time, it works just fine. It has great value to me and I want to keep it, to do work with it. It just takes some accommodation and understanding on the part of the user to work successfully on this machine. In a way, I've become more endeared to this computer than I was before, because we suffer from the same illness and require the same accommodation and understanding from people who interact with us.

This is what it's like to have epilepsy.

Poverty Boot Camp for Congress Members

Instead of a sweeping removal of all Congressmen and Congresswomen this next election (or the ones whose actions you find reprehensible), I propose a possible aid, hopefully a solution, to this crisis.

Every serving member of Congress will be required to attend a two-week Poverty Boot Camp. They will be allowed to bring one standard carry-on-sized suitcase and the clothes on their backs. No apartment to go home to, no family to take them in, no credit or debit cards.  Have beloved pets at home?  Sorry, they go the shelter.  They may or may not be there when you get home...if you do.

You will be forced to spend your most terrifying first days of homelessness trying to navigate help resources with the aid of fellow homeless people, whose information may or may not be accurate. You will be advised to file for food stamps...I hope you remembered to pack your pertinent legal documents to do that! You're probably not eligible for Medicaid unless you have children. Do you have a computer? Great! Then your application for government aid should only involve confusion, long waits, and computer crashes, rather than having to wait in line ,outside in the cold, to get benefits.

If you have a mental illness, there are agencies to help you, such as Santa Fe's The Life Link (438-0010), with case management, therapy, and other services. But be prepared to wait, and find some place to hole up on cold nights -- camp, couch surf, find a cheap motel, or curl up behind a defunct warehouse. If you bum a cigarette or a shot of vodka from a homeless buddy to ease the pain of having absolutely no control over your circumstances, be prepared to be hated, sneered at, and lectured by strangers.

Applying for disability benefits due to your clearly obvious debilitating physical or mental illness is a great idea...but you may have to wait a couple years and in the meantime, rely on unreliable county indigent funds or Healthcare for the Homeless, an angelic and heroic organization, which is unfortunately not available everywhere homeless people are found.

Congresspersons, you are free to attempt to form groups and committees to solve your plight, but you might find difficulty synchronizing the schedules of those spending their time desperately seeking social services, or those who are unreachable because they don't have cell phones or addresses.

Clothing banks are in place.  Senators and Representatives, I hope you aren't an unusual size.  You'll get used to casual -- VERY casual -- wear. Food is served at many locations around town. Don't have a car anymore, and don't have a bus pass? Well, you'll have to hoof it until your shoes wear out.

When the remains of your day of hustling settle into quiet contemplation, and if you can possible quiet your mind of intrusive thoughts of how you are going to eat, let alone how you might redeem yourself to your friends and family, perhaps you will realize how lucky you are, how badly your constituents are suffering (yes, homeless people vote), and that there is something you can do to stop the nonsense, usually by humbling yourself, gracefully admitting defeat, setting your efforts to the next election or vote, and resolving to do better for the Americans who trusted you.

Only then will you be released from this boot camp and allowed to once again attempt to start the engines again on this federal government and attempt -- no, not attempt -- suffer and sweat to complete, today, a bipartisan resolution.

Word Power and a Plea for Thoughtfulness

A while back the phrase of the day to describe something distasteful, weak, or out-of-style was "that's so gay." A movement started to stop people, especially kids, from saying this, asking them to think and realize that by saying such a thing, they were equating gay people to something worthless and distasteful, something gay people hardly needed more of in their ears and thoughts.

On Monday night, Ann Coulter tweeted the following: "I highly approve of Romney's decision to be kind and gentle to the retard." By calling the President of our United States a "retard," she quite understandably ticked some people off, most notably John Franklin Stephens, a Special Olympics athlete and global messenger who happens to have Down Syndrome.  His response to Ms. Coulter is respectful, brief, and profound and I strongly suggest you read it now.

In addition to using words like "retard(ed)" and "gay" to insult people, I have another personal pet peeve in the word "fit" to describe an epileptic seizure.  Yes, it's still described that way in the Merriam Webster dictionary.  But there is so much cultural context behind the cold, mathematical meaning we read when we look words up.  To me, a 'fit" is something a three-year-old might throw in the middle of Target's toy aisle when his weary parents refuse to buy him another toy.  It's an irrational, over-the-top, chosen pattern of behavior.  A seizure or paroxysm is not chosen.

We call people all sorts of unbelievable ugly names throughout our days, especially our bad days, or at least during bad traffic.  Do I really think that driver that pulled in front of me just a tiny bit too closely to me is an "idiot" or an "asshole?"  Or maybe if I take a breath I can analyze a bit more, like Mr. Stephens did, and think of other reasons why it might have happened.  For all I know that driver just got fired.  Or is on his way to a hospital for an emergency.

It's not easy and I'll never achieve perfection in this area, but I will be more responsible for the words that come out of my mouth - even - especially - the words their targets never hear.  It is better for my own attitude and helps other people's ugly words roll off my own back too.

Is PBS Funding Really That Important?

A lot of jokes have come up since Wednesday's fist presidential debate in which Mitt Romney said that as much as he likes Big Bird, he would cut funding for the Public Broadcasting System (PBS).  Facebook is full of pictures of angry Muppets, comedians are laughing about Sesame Street's revenge, etc.  To me it is no joke.

I learned how to read by watching Sesame Street and The Electric Company.  I was the target audience, an urban lower-class dweller whose parents couldn't afford preschool.  Sesame Street was designed to look like my neighborhood instead of Mayberry.  I felt comfortable there and on days when I didn't have anyone taking care of me, I didn't feel alone.  It was an important connection for me with real people, as well as imagination-concocted ones, because my parents were either working too much or too tired to read to me or spend quality time with me.  These days even the best-intended parents, and their kids, can identify with that.

Today I don't have television broadcasting in my house because I am in a rural area (a whole separate issue of government funding for public benefit), but when I am able to access and control a TV, I watch PBS frequently.  I know that programs I watch will have their funders clearly stated, that most programs will be scientifically accurate and educational, and that bias will be more limited than it is on other channels.

It's up to us what we spend our tax money on.  Such a budget change would have to be approved by Congress, but Romney is telling us what he will push for as president if he is elected. PBS is not a God-given right like some other issues in this election.  But I think people who agree with Romney think PBS is a luxury or some frivolous thing we don't need because we have the Internet now.  

PBS is educational access for people with no other options, no transportation to libraries and no expensive Internet access.  When you hear about iPhones and websites all over the media every day, it's easy to think everyone has them, but millions are still offline completely.  And who are the groups most at risk for not having access to information online?  Surprise!  Hispanics, African-Americans, and other minorities (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/04/opinion/sunday/internet-access-and-the-new-divide.html?pagewanted=all).

I don't know all of the political and funding issues of PBS.  I do know that current funding for PBS is about one-tenth or one percent of the current budget and thus would not make a dent in our economic crisis.  That's the entire PBS budget - not just the subsidies Romney wants to cut.  So it won't help boost the budget; it will only hurt education in this country.  Romney has also sworn to cut subsidies for the National Endowment for the Arts and Humanities, the Smithsonian Institution, etc. (http://www.csmonitor.com/Business/2012/1004/Big-Bird-fired-Cut-wouldn-t-end-PBS-or-balance-budget.-video), still a tiny fraction of our spending, but a big and painful cut to those Americans who need and benefit the most from them.

In my household, this would be like addressing my debt and spending problems by swearing off shoelaces.  Yes, it would reduce the amount of money I spend on shoelaces, but it would be an unnoticeable financial benefit.  The thing is, when you need shoelaces, you really need them.  There really is no substitute for them, unless you are wealthy enough to purchase fancy shoes with Velcro closures or the like.

"I'm Sick of Hearing About Cancer!"

Today I heard a woman exclaim to her friend, "I'm so sick of hearing about breast cancer!"  She was looking at an ad for a new charitable/advertising push meant to raise funds for the Susan G. Komen Foundation, or meant to appear compassionate enough to sell more products - I'm not sure which.

My first reaction in my mind was rage and disgust.  How dare she be so cavalier about something others have to live with every day?  I judged her for being so judgmental.  And when you think about it, it really was a stupid thing to say.

I've been fortunate enough in my life not to have to watch a loved one go through cancer.  I can only imagine the hopelessness, the pain, the way it rearranges your whole life, from scheduling to emotional upheaval.  And having cancer oneself?  I can't even imagine the pain, fear, and pure aggravation of grueling treatment programs and terrible side effects.  To say that it's a bother to "hear about" cancer when others are painfully prodding through it seems callous and rude.

My second reaction was guilt, because I realized with shame that I have thought the very same thing at times.

I've gone so far as to avoid purchasing a product just because it had a pink ribbon on it, not because I support cancer, but because I've sometimes felt as though breast cancer gets more "attention" than many other worthy causes and yes, I do get sick of hearing about it.  Efforts to "raise awareness" are particularly silly to me at this point.  It's doubtful that many have not become aware of breast cancer at this point, and those who haven't, for example very poor women in inner cities, are unlikely to become aware of it via Facebook appeals to share a heartbreaking picture or tease men by posting one's bra color.

I might be more likely to support more local or practical charities that provide real, in-person services to those with breast cancer, such as transportation, errands, service animals, etc.  But I still hurt for the many other deserving charities who must feel like they are playing second fiddle to an already well-funded (I didn't say sufficiently funded) research effort.  It seems at times that supporting Komen or other breast cancer awareness or research has become more of a fashion trend than a serious endeavor.  Recent questionable political decisions by the Komen Foundation haven't helped my distaste for it.

If you have someone in your life (or yourself) with breast or other cancer, I think about you, I grieve for you, I wonder what I can do for you.  I want to do something.  I've just come to the conclusion that buying pink soup cans instead of red and white ones is unlikely to help you at all.

What Ugly Politics Does to Kids

I don't have television reception where I live, and chose not to spend money on cable or dish.  I do miss it sometimes, because it's not all banality.  It's a good escape when I need laughter and it's often educational.  "Frasier" taught me lots of new words.  And one episode of "House" might have saved my cousin's life when she found what she thought was a wild carrot in her garden (which may have actually been the deadly plant hemlock).

But not until I was recently hospitalized in a room with cable TV did I realize the best gift I had received by not having network television access at home: freedom from negative political advertisements. Three months before a presidential and congressional election, I'm surprised they have any time for actual programming.

The percentage of political ads that are negative - that is, attacking the opponent rather than focusing on one's own accomplishments - varies depending on the part of the country in which you live.  According to the New York Times, during the last week before Florida's Republican primary election, 92 percent of political ads were negative...92 percent!  And it's getting worse from both major parties, with the Miami Herald reporting that 7 out of 10 ads this year have been negative, a huge leap from only about 9 percent negative ads in the 2008 presidential race.

I've been thinking about the large amount of time children are exposed to television, and how they must be taking in a lot of these ads. Can you imagine if children learned and practiced the behaviors they see in these ads?  Not only are we teaching our kids to hate their peers, colleagues, and opponents, but worse, we are teaching them to make excuses for their behavior, and to deflect responsibility by blaming others for their wrongdoings. 

"I know I cheated on this test, Ms. Johnson, but if you review the records of my classmate Robert, he has cheated nearly every week, for his own gain, while I only did it once...and that was to ensure our school would receive much-needed No Child Left Behind funding!"

"Four years ago my rival for head cheerleader botched a cartwheel during the most important football game of our school's season.  Is that the kind of "leader" we want, or would you rather have someone who has never botched a cartwheel in her life?"

"Yes, I did hit my sister, Mom, but if you are a patriotic American, don't you agree that a strong home defense is necessary for peace and unity?"

I was inadvertently taught to hate politicians before I really understood what politics even were.  I remember a January day when I was in the sixth grade. Living in a region predominantly populated with Democrats, we children had spent the past few months listening to negative ads and listening to our parents complain about President Ronald Reagan.  So when an aide came into our classroom to tell us that President Reagan had been shot, in our stupid 11-year-old naivete, we all started to cheer, celebrate, and high-five each other.  

Our otherwise kind and gentle teacher, Elaine Armendariz, slammed her hand down on the desk to shut us up, and proceeded to give us an almost minute-by-minute accounting of what it was like the day President John F. Kennedy was killed. It was a very healthy dose of shame I have never forgotten, no matter how badly I may dislike whomever holds a public office.

I will tell you whom I plan to vote for and why, and I may tell you why I disagree with my candidate's opponent, but never will you see me make a joke about killing a candidate, or a bumper sticker on my car alluding to a racial slur, or hear me say cheap shots about a candidate's family, looks, religion, or wardrobe.  They cheapen us all.

Whether it is through programs like debate clubs, public speaking training, morality education through religious institutions, strong parenting, or other means, we must teach our children to fight fair and fight civilly, even against people at the polar opposite of their own beliefs.  And perhaps more importantly, we shouldn't measure someone's goodness on the worse things that other people do.  

A Different Christian View of Abortion

A few years ago, I wrote a blog post entitled, "How Can You Be A Pro-Gay Christian?" because I wanted to answer the question that I knew many of my fellow Christians were asking me, either verbally or just in their own heads. I hope that I explained how my beliefs were formed and why they are in line with my view of the Bible and my love for Jesus Christ, though not all agreed with what I wrote.

This post is even scarier, because it's something I've not yet "admitted" to many of my Christian friends yet.  Everyone already knew I was a supporter of equal rights and equal treatment toward gay and lesbian people. But because of the often higher level of vitriol and moral outrage, I've not told many how I feel about the subject of abortion.  In many ways I wasn't even sure myself, until recently.

I always used to say that I thought abortion should be legal, but really difficult to get, with tons of restrictions, permissions, waiting periods, ultrasounds, etc. to deter women from getting an abortion. But I've read first-hand accounts online of women and families affected by these new restrictive laws that I used to believe in.  Recently I read an account of a couple who desperately wanted a baby but found out that it wasn't viable and would certainly die.  However, her doctor was not allowed to safely and humanely terminate the doomed pregnancy, forcing her into weeks of emotional torture, followed by the birth of the baby who gasped for air and suffered for several minutes before dying. Shaming, inconveniencing, or harassing women is not the answer.

A life begins at conception. This seems quite evident to me. Obviously a fetus is alive, if you define life as active biological processes or continued cell division.  I don't think it's just a blob of cells comparable to a tumor or a mole, as some have described it.  I think it's a person. What thoughts or feelings or sensations it has, I don't know, but it's a living human being. Killing a fetus without the mother's consent is murder.

So yes, I believe life begins at conception. And, I believe that abortion should remain legal and safe.

So how can I believe both of those things and still call myself a Christian?

Let's say you and I are acquainted, and you develop a life-threatening heart condition requiring a transplant. My heart happens to be a perfect match. Without my heart, you will certainly die. But in no state in the union can I be forced to donate my heart to you. It is not my legal or moral obligation to give up my life for you...even if I passed on the virus that infected your heart in the first place.  Even if we were talking about not a heart, but a kidney, something I could live without, it would still be wrong to force or coerce me to donate it to you.

Can you imagine if individuals could be legally forced to help others with an anatomical gift? It's the kind of thing that could be presented as positive, because it saves lives! But imagine if the police came knocking on your door to take you for the removal of your kidney for your cousin...or the president...or the boss who fired you...or a convicted murderer.

Heck, even if just a pint of my blood would save you, it still can't be taken by force of law. It is wrong. It would be wonderful if I could and would donate to you so that you could live, but making me do it is unthinkable...even if it means you would have to die. 

And I didn't come up with this law, nor did any government, nor any man. This is the law of God himself, known as Free Will.

God created all of his children and loves all of them.  I'm sure it would have been much easier for him to implant in them some switch, some absolute moral force that would kick in, make sure they never ever sinned, keep them from experiencing consequences, and ensure that they would all end up in heaven. But he gave us all free will instead, knowing that many would use that free will to break his heart or make terrible choices.  Free will is more valuable than even life itself, according to God himself. 

Love without choice is not love.

You cannot and should not be guilted, manipulated, threatened, jailed, fined, shamed, or forced by law to sacrifice your body or any part of your body, even temporarily, to another person if that is not what you choose to do. Yes, even if I think it's your fault that person exists to need your body.  It is clearly a violation of your individual liberty, and a violation of God's most fundamental law and most valuable gift, free will.  It would be wonderful if you choose to sacrifice your body to give birth to that other person, but if you don't want to, it is the most sacrilegious kind of wrong to force you to do so.

There is (always) more to say about the subject of abortion, but that is, in brief, why I assert that abortion can and must remain a legal, safe, and private matter between a woman and her doctor, and why I believe that this does not make me any less of a Christian.

Becoming a Foster Parent

On Tuesday I was officially approved to be a foster caretaker for the local animal shelter.  I'll be getting cats only - maybe, hopefully, a batch of tiny just-born kittens, now that "kitten season" is coming up.  

I was partially inspired by this hilarious article from the Cracked website (warning: a few swear words), and partially inspired by some events that had happened in my own life recently.  Whatever the reason, promoting growth and development to those not biologically related to me seems to run in my family, and I thought I'd give it a go.


My father was an "unofficial" foster parent for decades, hanging around with troubled boys in our neighborhood, running camps, YMCAs, etc., helping kids whose own families had given up on them.  Later in his life he became an "official" foster parent, and was planning to adopt his foster son when he (my father) unfortunately died too young.  I don't know that all my father's methods of care were exactly kosher, but I know he really did care, and I think I inherited that.  I just don't want to have to pay for anyone's college education, so I'm sticking with cats and not children.


Pebbles is finally happy in our new home, being the only animal for once, and no, I haven't broken the news to her yet.  I'm hoping that now that life is better for us and she feels safer, she will forgive me and maybe even do a little fostering herself.  At least I certainly hope so, because I'd rather her nurse the kittens and clean their gross regions than having to do it myself. 


Whether I get a brand new litter of bottle-fed babies or an old cranky shelter maven, I am looking forward to the adventure.  I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to them.  Last year, a kitten ran up to the door as I was walking in the house, crying for help.  I only took care of him for one night, and I still think about him a lot and wonder if I should have kept him (after a stay at the shelter and some foster care for socialization, he found a good home).


One thing that resounds in my ears is what the shelter representative told me to do in case one of the babies doesn't survive (it happens a lot): "Put it in a Ziplog baggie and stick it in the freezer until you can take it to the shelter."  Ugh.  But however they leave me, I'll be sad. If I get kittens, I'll be aggravated that they keep me up at night playing.  I'll complain about the smell of the litterbox. I'll probably claim to be happy they're leaving.  But I won't be.

It's a huge commitment to volunteer to care for and be responsible for a living creature.  It's an even bigger one to volunteer to do it only temporarily.

Life in Romney's 'Safety Net'

You've probably heard about GOP presidential candidate Mitt Romney's statement on Wednesday that he is "not concerned about the very poor" because "we have a safety net there." (For the CNN story, click here.) Pressed to clarify, Romney cited programs like food stamps, Medicaid, and housing vouchers as elements of this "safety net" which presumably rescues those in the most dire circumstances and prevents illness, homelessness, and deaths among the "very poor."

Continuing with his metaphor of the safety net, Romney stated, "If it needs repair, I'll fix it." I couldn't help but wonder what kind of repairs would be performed by a man whose party has consistently fought funding for badly needed social programs, programs that help pull people out of poverty and ultimately help the economy flourish, but are fought tooth and nail because they temporarily leave less money for politicians' pet projects and unnecessary wars.

I'm a Democrat, but I don't have a mouth-frothing, all-encompassing hatred for Romney like some people seem to harbor for their opposing party's candidates. At least he doesn't scare me as much as some others have. But as many have pointed out, his belief in this safety net highlights how out of touch he is with reality.

The arrogant belief that the poor have it easy because of welfare and food stamps and free medical care is not Romney's belief alone, however. It's something I've heard from many, many people who have never been there. I would like to sit down with Romney, and my friends who believe as he does that the poor are protected and safe, and describe in detail what life is like in his 'safety net.'

I'd like to tell Mitt Romney how many hours one has to sacrifice from the job hunt to sit in the Income Support Office waiting to apply for food stamps, and the very specific and prolific paperwork one has to produce to procure them. You have to prove income and residency and all sorts of other things that you might not have because you don't get mail when you're living in your car, you haven't had a pay stub in 18 months, or all your paperwork is 20 miles away in storage and you have no car, no bus fare, and no support system. And if you do receive food stamps, you will still have to find a way to buy toothpaste and toilet paper. Think those aren't necessities to stay alive? Try living without them for a week.

See how easy it is to get a housing voucher, especially if you are single, without children, able-bodied, and relatively young. Do you think there are dozens of empty apartments out there just waiting for one of the very poor to qualify for one and move in? No, there are hundreds, thousands in some cities, of people on a waiting list for just one place to live.

And if you are fortunate enough to be capable of producing the necessary documentation and passing the interviews and waiting period to obtain Medicaid, you can look forward to hours- or days-long waits in hospital emergency rooms, and months-long waits to see an actual primary care doctor. Need a specialist for your heart disease or schizophrenia? Sorry, the specialty clinics are so full they are no longer even accepting people on the waiting lists.

The insulated ignorant might feel better believing that everyone who is sleeping on the streets tonight is there by choice or a moral failing of some sort - mentally ill people who don't take their meds, drug addicts, drifters...but a large (and fastest growing) segment of the homeless population is families with children. Some can't get treatment for their mental illness. Far too many are veterans, American heroes going hungry, heroes people think they are helping by placing magnets on their cars.

And too often, the same people complaining about the proliferation of junkies and crazy criminals, are the same people shouting for Congress to cut funding for health care and treatment programs that could and would help those people, reduce their numbers, reduce nuisance panhandling and crime, and improve local tourism and economies.

Regardless of what many believe, no one plans or chooses to be very poor. You won't believe me about any of this until it happens to you, and you find that that safety net is more like one single thin thread that cuts into your hands as you hang on for dear life. If there were a working safety net for the very poor, no one in America would ever die cold and alone, curled up under newspapers in a park.

Merry Whatever. Did I Offend You?

Around the debate of saying "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays," a lot of the grousing I hear from Christians and others who advocate saying "Merry Christmas" revolves around the assumption that people are trying not to offend someone, and that people might be or are offended when one wishes them a "Merry Christmas."

I usually say "Happy Holidays," not because I am afraid of offending someone, but because I want to be inclusive of all people celebrating this time of year, whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Winter Solstice, Festivus, or Other. I know no one is going to be offended if I say "Merry Christmas." Never in my life has any person of a different religion from my own expressed verbal or nonverbal discontent after I wished them a "Merry Christmas."

However, if you as a Christian are getting upset at the people wishing others "Happy Holidays," the message you are sending is, "You are not validating my particular religious holiday, and therefore I am offended."

If you think inclusivity is a bad thing, is it because it you enjoy getting special attention for your particular celebration, rather than being lumped into a group?

Yes, you have the right to wish someone a "Merry Christmas," and if that person gets offended, so be it. But in my observances lately, the only ones expressing offense are the Christians who believe it is somehow wrong, or at least less right, to invite believers of other faiths into the celebratory fold.

In Memory of September 11: They Must Be Stopped

On this day of sadness and remembrance, my love for America must supersede my admiration for political correctness.

The only way to properly honor those whose lives were taken on September 11, 2001, especially those who gave their lives to help others, is to accept the truth, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I consider myself to be an educated and tolerant person, but my friends, my family, trusted members of the media, religious leaders, they have all taught me how important it is to know the truth...to know what evil looks like, so that it can be stopped.

For some of you it will be hard to swallow, but the fact is that there is a group of people who think that under certain circumstances, it is actually heroic to kill an innocent person. Usually those circumstances are formed in their own heads, or by some ancient religious teaching. They believe God told them to kill, so they kill. They murder out of a love for God, as messed up as that sounds.

They keep pointing to the purity of their basic religious tenets. They argue that just because some people of their faith are violent, doesn't make it a violent religion, that modern times have created splinter groups, extremists, etc. But the truth is that even the original writings glorify, in several places, killing innocent people, war, the oppression of women, the abuse of children, and doing away with entire societies thought to be antagonistic to their faith -- infidels.

In these certain circumstances, they don't even consider killing to be wrong or evil. They think they are preventing evil by killing someone who might do evil. They claim their religion is one of peace and love, but in reality it is exclusionary and rooted in fear and violence.

They say they want to be part of everyday society, but on a regular basis they gather with their similarly closed-minded brethren and plot ways to recruit, convert, intimidate, and regulate the rest of us into thinking like they think, or else. They claim to be patriotic Americans, but they insist that theirs is the only religion that has any validity to it at all.

In some communities in which they are the majority, they have even warped and twisted the United States Constitution, which is supposed to be religiously objective and fair to all. They have used their political connections to pass laws that clearly favor their way of life. Some of these laws mandate government officials to let them lead their prayers at public events, or require all citizens to honor their holy books. As horrific as this sounds, they have even pushed for laws that allow parents to withhold lifesaving medical treatment for their children when they are ill. This goes way beyond the arena of religious freedom and into the arena of amorality -- evil.

I'm not advocating that they should be deported or harmed. I do believe in the United States Constitution, and that means they have the right to believe whatever they want to believe. We have to be understanding, and we should be accepting and tolerant -- more so than they are. We can get along with them.

But we should still be vigilant, always on the lookout for danger, whether that danger is in the form of one of them plotting to bomb a building, or plotting to pass a law infringing on our constitutionally protected rights.

These religious fundamentalists threaten our families and our way of life. Their violent history, their passionate hold on the notion that only they are right, their hypocritical professions of peace...on this anniversary of September 11, 2001, and on every other day, we cannot allow their threats to continue. They must be stopped. So, keep alert and be on the lookout for them.

They're called Christians.

Viewing the Body

I mentally prepared myself for the worst. I'd heard the reports, and even seen some photos, but I had to see for myself, even though I knew it would be horrific, shocking, and painful. The closer I got, the more anxious I became, wanting the moment to come so I could get it over with. I had to view the remains.

No one came with me. There was no funeral director, supportive family member, or pastor to guide my grief. I was alone, driving in my car, up Highway 4 from San Ysidro, through Jemez Springs and on toward the Valles Caldera National Preserve, my favorite place on the planet (of those I've seen so far). My trip would take me past Bandelier National Monument, and to the outskirts of Los Alamos.

The Los Conchas Fire had been burning for almost four weeks, and was burning still even despite the steady rain falling as I drove through the mountains. Well contained by now, and on its way out, it had at one point threatened many of my family members and the sacred places I had spent with them. But the danger was over for most of the places relevant to my life, and it was time for me to go and assess the damage for myself. It wasn't enough to hear from my cousin which places were burned, or how extensively, or how close it had come to the Los Alamos National Laboratory site where he worked. Even the thousands of photographs and videos I saw online and on television weren't enough. I had to see it for myself.

Most psychologists and professionals in the funeral industry will tell you that it's important upon the death of a loved one, that you actually view the body of the deceased. Donald W. Steele, Ph.D., explains that viewing the body is more important now because of societal changes where people die more often in hospitals than in homes, attended to by medical personnel rather than by family members. Even after death, he explains, "when a person died it was left to the family to minister to the dead, or at least to spend time with the body, which was kept at home until the funeral. In
contrast today, the professional funeral director takes charge of the deceased's body and helps the family in planning for the funeral."

Some experts cite that it can be comforting to view the body after it has been prepared by a funeral professional, especially if the last view of that living person had been one after a ravaging illness or traumatic bodily injury. I'm not sure I can wrap my mind around the comfort aspect. In the only instances of bodies I've seen prepared for viewing, they didn't look beautiful, or "so lifelike," or "like they were sleeping." They looked dead. I still see Megan Bell, the 16-year-old cheerleader who'd been decapitated in the car accident that took her life, while hearing the people around me comment on how she looked so beautiful and natural. All I could focus on was the very obvious, makeup-caked scar across her neck.

Comfort aside, however, the main reason cited for the importance of viewing the body of the deceased is for reality testing. Most people are in some level of denial that a person has died, even if the person can intellectually acknowledge that the deceased is gone. While a viewing doesn't automatically fix emotional denial, it helps it resolve a little faster. In the desperation of crushing grief, the mind can manufacture almost any alternate reality to comfort itself that maybe that person isn't really dead.

I remember thinking once in a while that maybe my father wasn't really gone, but that the 13-year-old foster child with him at the time of his death, had manufactured the whole thing as a hoax to perpetrate a money-grab scam or to get attention. And, maybe my whole family was in on pretending that my mother had died, to punish me for arguing with her days before. During the months that my mother's ashes were in a box stored in my closet, waiting for a suitable time to scatter them, I can clearly recall several instances when I sort of expected her to walk out of my closet. Many times I've been grateful that I never had to see either of my parents after their deaths, but I acknowledge it probably would have helped me progress in my grief.

It was eerie driving through the forest on a warm summer Saturday, seeing the picnic grounds, camping areas, monuments, and hiking trails, normally crawling with tourists, now as abandoned as a ghost town. My hands gripped the wheel a little tighter as I got closer to the edge of the fire's wake of destruction, seeing more and more trees browned from dryness, then blackened from the flames, then felled and destroyed.

But most of it was in patches, not the complete, miles-wide sea of black I had been expecting to see. The Los Conchas picnic area, a favorite of mine for family memories, was mostly untouched, as was the area around Battleship Rock, and most of the Valle Grande. Spots of the valley's grasslands were blackened, but mostly I noticed how small a portion of it was destroyed, when it could have very easily shot across the entire prairie in a matter of seconds. Hundreds of elk were even grazing along the outer perimeter of the scorched patches of grass. While many parts of Bandelier were burned, the most sacred places, the ruins, the places I remember, were still healthy and alive.

What touched my emotions the most was seeing what was still left, what was still alive. How the fire got close, but didn't destroy what was really important. I didn't enjoy seeing the pain the land had endured, and I cried for how long it will take to recover. I know that 18 families lost their homes, thousands of animals lost their lives, and a lot of beauty is gone forever.

But the life behind the forest and the force that made it is still alive. What made it sacred to me is still there. Like the memories of my mother, and the lessons of my father, they are still alive. I understand what is gone, but I grasp what I still have and what will never die.

Etiquette Versus Tolerance

This morning I attended a funeral for a dear man in my church, George Darby. George always greeted me with a big bear hug and always remembered my name, even though I only managed to get to services about once every three months or so. He was a drummer, a husband, a father, a quilter (I just found out today -- that rocks!), and a man of joy and happiness, but despite that happiness, I donned a conservative black dress and went to pay my respects.

I didn't actually count, but I'd say less than ten percent of the attendees were in black or gray. That doesn't really bother me, because like I said, George was joyous, colorful and unconventional. He would at times wear an African robe and skull cap (crown) to church. So looking mournful was, in my opinion, optional at this funeral.

But the people wearing jeans and ratty t-shirts got my attention. So did the three or four men wearing hats who didn't even take them off during the prayers. Several women were in flip-flops. At least twice, despite a very clear announcement to silence them, cell phones rang.

I was livid, judgmental and bitter. I smiled at the parents whose children were properly dressed, and scowled at the parents whose kids looked like they'd just rolled out of bed.

I grew up on the East Coast, where if you're less than fifteen minutes early, you're late. Now I live in New Mexico, where if you show up five minutes before the end, you're on time. I grew up right at the end of the era when people used to dress up finely to get on an airplane. We stood up during the National Anthem, even if it was only playing on television (I still do this, even when I'm alone). I'm glad my parents raised me with this sense of etiquette and respect. It has served me in many other ways and I like the way I am.

But the more Pastor Si talked about George, and the more I heard from his friends and family about how loving he was, and how happily he met life, the more I began to soften and question my qualification to judge the other mourners with whom I sat.

The God I believe in is a "come as you are" kind of god. We don't have to pretty ourselves up and get right before we can approach Him. I believe he welcomes all of us into heaven (yes, even that guy) because whatever we have done in life, or whatever reasons we have for rejecting what He offers us, He knows the reasons behind it all. He knows the pain that causes our doubts. He knows how we were raised and what we were and weren't taught.

Times change, cultures shift, and fashions adapt. Which is more likely: that 90 percent of the people in that chapel were being offensive and disrespectful, or that one woman was wrong for judging how much they cared or respected George based on their outward appearances?

I am not God, and I don't know the heart of anyone in the chapel today. I don't know if the man sitting next to me had just one hour to spare to come to the funeral from his job at a construction site, and thus had no choice but to wear jeans. A family member was wearing a Jimi Hendrix hat in George's honor - should I reprimand that person because it's always wrong to wear a hat in a religious service? There were a couple of "Harley guys" who played in a band with George, and I see now that they were wearing the clothes they always wore when they were with him -- the clothes they always wear because that's who they always are.

What a joy, and what a feeling of freedom, that we can be who we are, and how we are, not only before God, but with our friends and families.

When it is time for my funeral, you can wear whatever you want. The important thing is that you are there, because you were important to me.

But please...do turn off your cell phone.

Tips to Make You Better at Scrabble

I love Scrabble, like a lot of people, and I've been playing it most of my life. I'm also pretty good with words, so I win a lot. The only people I've played with who really gave me a run for my money are my best friend who now lives two hours away, and the Scrabble buddy I met via Craigslist, who turned out to be a serial rapist. Oops! (He didn't do anything to me except beat me in Scrabble, by the way.) So in the interest of building your confidence and getting you to play with me, I decided to write some encouragement.

There are some people among my family and friends who think they stink at Scrabble or that they don't have a chance at winning because they think it's all about just being smart, or knowing lots of words, or the luck of the draw. But there are some specific things that everyone has access to. More than my level of intelligence or ability to spell, these are the things that help me win, and they will help you too:

1. Save your blanks.

If you draw a blank, don't just use it to make a decent word. Save it to make a bingo (a bingo is when you use all of your tiles in one play). Save it for two or three turns, or even more. Don't think of a bingo as something that just happens if you're lucky enough to get the right letters. Try to plan for it.

2. Try to make two words at once (or more).

One way to do this is to use an S - which you should also save for this purpose - to make two words, one vertical and one horizontal.

You can also make words parallel to each other, as long as each pair of adjoining letters forms a word. This technique can really multiply your score.

3. Get to know the two-letter-word list.

If you are using a regular dictionary or the official Scrabble-players' dictionary, there are several two-letter words, many obscure that you've probably never used. If you memorize these, you can use them to make multiple words in one play, placing words right next to each other, parallel to each other on the board. This is also a good way to dump a bunch of vowels. Did you know that AA, AI, and OE are acceptable Scrabble words?

4. Watch for word-lengthening combinations such as -ED, -ING, -ION, etc.

These will help you get a bigger score and up your chances of using all your tiles for one play.

5. Take your time.

Don't play right when you find a possible word. Take your time and find the best word you can make.

My mother and I used to have Scrabble games that would last for three days; we'd get up between turns to live life, leaving the board set up, and return to the game as we were able (note: not advised if your home contains a cat).

6. Pay attention to those premium squares.

If you have decent tiles and can make several words, try to make words that allow you to play your high-scoring letters on the double-letter or triple-letter squares.

If you are using an S or other letter to make two words, one vertically and one horizontally, it really adds up if you can find a premium square to place that adjoining letter on.

7. Try not to set up your opponent.

Even if you have a word that could earn you 20 points, it might not be worth it if you set up a great play for your opponent, such as giving them a place to use a triple-word premium square.

8. If you get a U, and the Q hasn't been played yet, save it.

If you use your U for a mediocre word, and then get stuck with the Q, you'll be sorry, especially if the game ends and you still have that Q, because your opponent gets the points from the tiles you couldn't use, and the Q is worth 10 points.

There are some words that can be spelled with a Q without a U, such as QAID and QOPH. It's worth memorizing these too, along with the two-letter word list.

9. Don't be afraid to challenge.

When your opponent plays a word that looks unfamiliar to you, especially if your opponent is a seasoned player or likely to be full of bull, don't be afraid to challenge the play. If you are wrong, you lose a turn, but remember that playing a completely made-up word is legal, and if it's not challenged, the points count. Watch for a "tell," just like in poker...and develop your own poker face so you can try it too, when you dare!

10. Practice!

Play online, via Facebook, with friends, on your smartphone, and anywhere else you can. You'll learn new words playing with different people, and it will sharpen your brain, not just for the game, but for life!

Whose fault is it, anyway?

Do you think it's easier to accept hardship when it's brought about by your own fault, or when it's brought about by sheer bad luck or someone else's harmful action? I used to think it was better to be at the mercy of life's terms, rather than a causative, because there would be no guilt associated with your pain. You wouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed to know, to have to tell people, that as terrible as things are, they're all your fault. But today I think maybe it's better to know that you caused your own misery, because at least it affords you some measure of control, or perceived control. I did this to myself, so at least I know I can prevent it in the future. Being traumatized because of some other person's decision to hurt you, or because of somebody else's mistake, or because of the bankrupt space on the wheel of fortune, you're just a victim. Your a pawn in God's game. You know that you cannot do a thing to prevent getting that ice cold punch in the stomach again...and again. The last couple years, I was suffering, but mostly because of my own actions. I was helped, then I found my own motivation, and life got better. I found a job, a job I loved, and I excelled at it. When I was clinging by my fingernails to the cliff, God helped me to my feet and dusted me off, then waited for me to gain some stability and confidence, even happiness. Then he laughed at me and then pushed me over the edge. I got fired on Friday for no ascertainable reason whatsoever.

Perfect F***ing Lives

First, I'll get a little whining out of the way. Brace yourself.

My family of origin was pretty messed up, like a lot of families. I don't think either of my parents ever wanted to get married or have kids, but they did because that's what people did back then. My dad wanted boys and got three girls, and he didn't do a very good job of hiding his disappointment. Mom was depressed and popped pills, so I was neglected and fled the house looking for nurturing. I got something else instead.

The 'rents divorced when I was nine, and Mom dragged two of us girls to New Mexico, leaving my bipolar, violent, alcoholic sister with Dad. I slogged through adolescence and young adulthood until I was 25, when both of my parents died in separate incidents 36 days apart. The next 15 years or so I basically adopted many of Mom's lesser habits and coping mechanisms, accompanied by health issues, frequent unemployment, and even a bout of homelessness.

It took a long time, but I am really happy now. I have a job I love, I am healthier than I have been in a long time, and I've made peace with most of my past.

I always thought a bad upbringing was pretty par for the course - everyone had a bad childhood, right? Everyone has baggage and trauma and all that.

But there is this one certain family that keeps popping into my head and filling me with resentment because they are so...damned...normal. Life is perfect for these people!

The head of this family makes six figures in the same job he's worked for 20 years. They live in an idyllic town in a huge house. They had several children, boys and girls, none of whom have any illnesses or special needs. To my knowledge they've experienced no untimely deaths. No one in this family has addiction issues or health problems or even bad habits. They're all thin and beautiful and when they want to take vacations or buy cars or whatever, they just do it. All the kids grew up and dated and got married and had beautiful, normal, healthy, perfect kids. Just like that.

Where is the freaking trauma in this family? It's not fair. I love these people and I don't wish bad things for them. But it seems so unbalanced.

This sounds embarrassingly whiny even as I'm writing it, even in my own head. How lucky I am that I was born in America, that I was born caucasian, that I can see and hear and walk...someone out there might be cursing MY name over how unfairly fortunate I am.

I'm just venting.

Am I a better person than the members of this family will ever be because I had to develop strength early on in my life? Who knows. I just know that I don't regret or curse who I am today, so I suppose being grateful for the crap that fertilized it is the best way to go.

"I Am A Lonely Soul..."

Meant to post this yesterday. I wrote it almost four years ago.

April 25, 2007

"I Am A Lonely Soul..."

It's old news by now, but Brad Delp, lead singer of the classic rock band Boston, was found dead in his home on Friday, March 9, 2007. Brad was probably the most underrated vocalist in rock history. He brought class, discipline, and perfection to a world often blasted as messy and irresponsible.

Despite his accomplishments and full life, Brad committed suicide. In his note, he wrote (in French), "I am a lonely soul."

I keep wondering how someone with a wedding in the offing to a loving fiancee, two children, and many adoring fans, could say he was lonely. I know that is a very simplistic way to think...fans are not close friends, and you never know what's going on in someone's mind and heart.

Once, in college, I planned to commit suicide. I started writing my goodbye letters. After a couple hours, somewhere around letter number 17, I realized with a little chuckle that if I had at least 17 people in my life who would care that I had died, and who I knew would be sad and want an explanation from me, then what the hell was I killing myself for?

Of course, my suicidal ideation was borne of teen agnst and self-pity, not a serious mental illness. I guess that's why I lucked out and Brad did not.

Of all the gifts God gave to us, music is the one I treasure most. He could have just given us all angel choirs to lift our souls, but he decided instead to open the world of music to any taste, any mood, any imaginable instrument, any rhythm, and any volume. The deepest parts of my heart and soul are moved as much by songs like "Dust in the Wind" and "Highway to Hell" as they are by Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

One of the songs I always loved most, however, was "Don't Look Back" by Boston. On top of the usual amazing guitar work, precision drums, and Brad's gorgeous vocal harmonies, the lyrics shined:

I can see, it took so long just to realize
I'm much too strong not to compromise
Now I see what I am is holding me down...
I'll turn it around.

This song helps me celebrate my arrival out from the darkness of my past. Today when I hear it, I am heartbroken that the peace Brad sang about in these words, was lost to him for reasons I will never understand.

But I know that the joy of the music and the beauty of the voice who gave it to me will transcend the pain, and grief, and stand forever as a monument to Brad, and to the Creator who endowed us all with a gift to share with the world, whatever that gift may be.

Rest in peace, and thank you, Brad.

Coming Out of Poverty

After years of financial and emotional poverty, I started a new job two weeks ago that so far, I love. I opened a bank account. I filled my car with gas instead of getting five dollars' worth at a time. I've started saving money for my own apartment.

I'm worried that this pink cloud of normalcy won't last. I'm scared that I'll revert to my old ways of thinking. I am filled with hope, but not security. I feel like I'm wobbling on new roller skates.

In six months or so, when I start getting used to having a job and an income and things to do and all that stress that comes with this "regular" life, I want to remind myself what it was like without those things.

When I start complaining about having to get up in the morning, I want to remind myself what it felt like to lie in bed for 16 hours of every day watching reruns.

When I have a stressful day at work, and I'm sure I will, I'll be thankful that I am working at a desk, sitting at a computer, doing things I love to do like proofreading and helping important social causes -- not standing on my feet all day serving fast food, not digging holes on a cold day, not scrubbing toilets. I will pray for those people who are forced to do labor they hate, instead of working jobs they enjoy.

When I start to bitch about traffic to and from work, I want to remember that I was six days away from having my car repossessed.

When I moan about having to pay the electric bill, I want to remember what it was like when my landlord and friend shut off my electricity in a humiliating, yet effective, attempt to motivate me and save my life.

When I dread having to grocery shop, I want to make sure I recall what it was like to gather my records and wait for hours and hours at the food stamps office.

And I want to access the emotional memory of trying to figure out how to pay for things that food stamps do not buy, such as toilet paper and toothpaste. Should I sacrifice yet another piece of my dignity and ask for another handout from a church, a friend, a family member, a stranger? Or should I risk my self-respect, my freedom, and my clean criminal record to steal from a grocery store?

If my beloved kitten gets sick or injured, I will remember the fearful tears I shed knowing that without money to pay for a veterinarian, I might have had to give her away or put her to sleep. And I will remember the guilt over having to skip her vaccination last year.

When there's a line at the bank some Friday afternoon in the future, I'll be grateful that I don't have to pay another exorbitant fee to some seedy check-cashing store.

When my rent goes up, I need to picture in my mind the boxes piled in the spare room of my friend's house, and be grateful that I have a whole apartment to myself, no matter how small, in which to place my things.

The day the doctor bills come in the mail, I'll praise God for health insurance and for the privilege of waiting an hour for my doctor to be ready to see me. I'll remember sitting in the emergency room lobby at the public hospital for nine, ten, eleven hours, because there was nowhere else for me to go.

Next time I want to stop for an expensive cup of coffee, I'll recall that day I sat outside a Starbucks trying to sell a gift card I had gotten for Christmas for half-price, quietly crying the whole time out of shame.

When my friends want to see me, they won't have to sponsor my meal or pay for my movie ticket. I'll enjoy paying forward the gifts I was given, footing the bill for someone else's meal to help them out.

If I'm driving down the road and I see a police car in my rear-view mirror, sure, I might feel a little anxious, but then I'll remind myself that in my glove compartment I have proof that my car is insured and registered, that there are no warrants for my arrest, that I am not under the influence of drugs, and that I am driving in accordance with my love for traffic safety.

When I get a bad cold or when my back hurts, I'll go back to that summer of 2010 when my kidneys failed, my blood pressure dropped to 50 over 20, and the crash team came running into my hospital room as I lost consciousness.

I will thank God that I am alive, that I have to work, pay for things, wait in lines, suffer through stresses and setbacks, and even hurt.

Thank you.

Thank you.

IQ

I took my first IQ test in elementary school. I had already learned to read by watching Sesame Street and The Electric Company, so while my teacher was instructing my classmates how to sing the alphabet song, I was whisked into the coat closet with the teacher's aide to read, write, and play word games. Back then, before I learned the proper, socially unacceptable ways to escape feelings, reading was my refuge. Even the little pervert next door was fascinated that I could read at three years old. He used to pull soup cans and cereal boxes off the shelves to watch me read the labels.

Supposedly, IQ tests are developed in such a way as measures one's capacity to learn and think, rather than the amount of knowledge in one's head. Thus, your IQ score at age 5 should be the same as your IQ score at age 35. I'm not sure how they do this; perhaps my friend Susie can fill me in sometime. She develops IQ tests for a living. My personal experience tells me this is not the case, however. My IQ in elementary school was measured at 140. In high school it was 130. As an adult, it had dropped to 125.

Do we naturally get stupider as we age? I don't think so, although it's hard to dispute when I am driving down the street, in my car, frantically wondering where I left my car keys.

In my opinion, and Susie, correct me if I'm wrong, intelligence is a muscle. In school, it is exercised daily, challenged, stretched, warmed up and on the job. After schooling is completed, it atrophies and gathers dust. One can hardly expect it to lift the same amount of intellectual weight that it did in one's youth.

Even if you have a job that challenges your mental capacity, ask yourself just how much of each day you really spend exercising your brain, as opposed to attending meetings, walking down hallways, making copies, fantasizing about vacations, drinking coffee, loading the paper tray, pretending to listen to coworkers or customers, etc.

I still enjoy reading these days, but most of the time I'm too lazy to make it through a book. But I try to exercise my brain by asking questions. I am still curious about things, stupid little things like who decides what key a car's horn beeps in, and huge philosophical things like how regional accents develop or why we haven't all been sucked into a black hole yet.

Whenever one of those silly little ponderings enters my mind, I jot it down so I can look it up later when I get bored. Undoubtedly, when I die, some of those questions will be yet unanswered. I want the people who attend my funeral to find my jotting notebook, pick a question or two, and find out the answers for themselves. Maybe that little exercise will raise your IQ a few points.

My Divorce

We met in school, early enough in life to be excited, but late enough in life to know what we each wanted. I won't say it was love at first sight, but I don't think many hours passed before we knew there was something special about our bond, and that we were meant for each other. We each decided, first in an unspoken way, and later spoken many times over, that we would spend the rest of our lives together.

The next few years were filled with happiness, change, silly laughter, challenging moments that strengthened us, and a few heartbreaking moments that threatened to divide us. While others around us left, focused on different things, we stayed together.

As years tend to do, years passed by, and another color was added to our world together. My partner in life started to look around, finding other people to spend time with, other activities preferred over those I offered. I was startled, of course, but not overly concerned. I chalked it up to a seven-year-itch sort of situation, only the 20-year-itch version.

But when it became clear that those dabblings meant that my partner in life had found and chosen another partner in life, that new color started to overtake all the wonderful colors I had come to know and love and need.

It started as a fear, but not a fear of anything that could really take anything from me. Plans began to be made, and fear became sinking horror, reality, knowing...they are leaving together. I have been asked to leave the house. I am packing my things. I am sad. But we are still partners, aren't we? Aren't we still irrevocably intertwined together in the eyes of God and in each other's souls?

Time has passed and the color is gone now. I make a phone call when I need to be renewed or when I need a laugh or a memory. I hear the voice on the recording of the one who stole my love away, telling me they have no time for me now. If a conversation happens, it is brief and shallow, telling me without telling me that my partner has untwined from me, irrevocably, permanently, no matter how deep my need. My thread waves aimlessly in the occasional breeze, longing for another thread, but all the threads are woven by now.

I live, I am, alone.

Bet you never thought I'd been divorced, did you? I bet none of you even thought I'd ever been married. I haven't been. Fourteen months ago, when we were both nearing 40 years old, enjoying an adulthood of childless singleness, my best friend got married and moved away.