Spiritual

Blame Election Hyperbole on Six Moral Foundations

After Tuesday’s elections spouse asked, “What are your Facebook friends saying about the election?”  First let me explain:  spouse will not, under any circumstances ever, join Facebook—yet, he’s a semi-Facebook voyeur always asking, “What are the peeps saying today?”  (Sometimes I’ll read him the posts in their entirety to demonstrate the utter blandness of my Facebook page.  But  I’ve blocked the fire starters as a measure of my good health, AKA lowered blood pressure.) Anyway, I decided to take a cruise through []

Remodeling Dysfunction’s Murderous Stink

I grew up in dysfunction. I smell dysfunction’s stink in an instant. As an adult, some of the dysfunction from my childhood stuck. Several tragedies later, I recognized my behavior and how my behavior hurt others. My stinky self begged for a remodel. (It remains a work in progress.)

Love Thy Neighbor. Seriously?

Love thy neighbor.  Oh boy!  I’d guess it’s a direct challenge by the task’s author.  The directive is akin to a parent’s demand, “Eat thy chicken gizzards.”  (My apologies to those who love eating chicken gizzards.) But as there are foods one cannot stomach, so there are “thy neighbors” that one cannot stomach.  Yet, we’re supposed to love them. Twelve years of parochial school education lingers in my concern about the divine directives. Today, one will not find gizzards or any kind []

My Catastrophic Molt

Seen also in The Cambrian A thousand or more northern elephant seals sprawled across the beach when I arrived for my volunteer docent duty yesterday.   These intrepid seals travelled about  2500 miles to this beach to lose their dead skin and old fur.  They must haul out  and remain on land for four weeks  in order to molt.  We call this shedding of the dead epidermis and old fur  a catastrophic molt. I posted myself at the very south end of the Piedras Blancas []

429 Anti-Inflammatory Flames of Good

This floodgate of what I now call “sparks of light from the prism” amaze me. It is everywhere. I find good deeds in my newspaper’s letters to the editor, on Facebook, in books I’m given, and from random discoveries. A heightened awareness of good seems to foster more good. It also spins my Irish temper into an Irish toast. What would once have given me cause to jump all over some nincompoop now coerce me into smiles and humor.

The Soul Doesn’t Have A Color

My first black friend was in high school. We teamed up because, like me, irreverence surfaced to her tongue and she hurled some pretty funny commentary about school and life. Our skin wasn’t an issue. More important was our shared teenage angst—you know, boys, make up, zits, bras, and cars. Last names and skin tones made no difference in my youth.  I wasn’t raised that way. The person who influenced me most was my godfather, a tap dancer with deep Irish roots. []

Paths

I’m not surprised that I still build winding paths through every garden I’ve planted. It’s exactly how I ramble through life. Mystery, surprises, adventure and exploration define my continuing lifestyle.