Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Self-Sufficiency is Overrated
This post and this comment make so much sense to me.
http://blog.penelopetrunk.com/2015/01/03/self-sufficiency-is-overrated/#comments
Dee commented:
In a way, the distortion of feminism has led to this problem increasing. Feminism is about equality, not the idea that you don’t need a man. Somehow it’s become wrong to need your husband.
Here in Sweden it’s becoming more and more absurd.
If the dishes need doing, it’s done together and after that you walk the dog. Together. Everything takes these couples twice as long because of a ridiculous and unrealistic attemp to make everything exactly 50/50 equal. What happened to “I’ll do the dishes and you walk the dog and then we’ll have time and energy for sex” ? (Hint- that’s better for the marriage in the long run).
Who cares about who does what? As long as you work as a team to benefit the team, you’re on a winning streak.
My husband drives our car, not because I can't, but because he likes it better than me. I like to wander off in my thoughts and driving prohibits that.
I cook, he cleans. Why? Because I’m a great cook and he has OCD, so he cleans 5 times before I’d even think about cleaning. In turn, he’s surprised every time he senses hunger as if it isn’t something you can plan for. (He never gets that you cook before you get hungry).
I spent my early 20’s trying to overcompensate for my gender and prove that “I can too” by throwing myself at any task or domain that was considered “for men”. Until I realized that a lot of the things I was doing, and of course COULD do- I had no interest in doing.
Feminism- free to choose to be the one that handles the barbecue and free to choose to not ruin my manicure digging that hole in the garden.
Sorry for the rant.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Stop Being So Religious
![[cage.jpg]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTWB0ZpNMHVj4Ebg7i1prOd8gAoCl-dtkba35FdYDvQJG407AwFlmpvd0GCwPuuUYx9D-OR155OChCjskCUYovuDZT_oP3-nYnmiXjxs4Ii0XZPH4lRPac_n8lB5tajicy7OP8DM2OUs/s400/cage.jpg)
Stop Being So Religious
What
Do sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
So religious
Like That.
How Not To Need Resurrection
A couple times a week we have picnics at our local cemetery. After we eat I watch the girls play happily and listen to Sophia read the tombstones to everyone while she wonders aloud how they died and who leaves them flowers and such.
The last time we went I had packed a picnic lunch and when I picked up J and V from preschool I asked where they wanted to picnic - on our front lawn or at the cemetery? They chanted the whole way there, "Ce-me-tar-y! Ce-me-tar-y!"
The last time we went I had packed a picnic lunch and when I picked up J and V from preschool I asked where they wanted to picnic - on our front lawn or at the cemetery? They chanted the whole way there, "Ce-me-tar-y! Ce-me-tar-y!"
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How Not to Need Resurrection
Children like to play at death—
they hold their breath,
and cross their arms and shut their eyes
until they forget to be dead; then rise
from their nest of pillows and play instead
at being lost or married,
as if their state was mutable, as if, like water
they could flow or freeze or climb without a ladder
into the heavens then drop back down—
they are the first resurrectionists, they alone
understand the trick is not to try,
that once you believe in death, you must surely die.
they hold their breath,
and cross their arms and shut their eyes
until they forget to be dead; then rise
from their nest of pillows and play instead
at being lost or married,
as if their state was mutable, as if, like water
they could flow or freeze or climb without a ladder
into the heavens then drop back down—
they are the first resurrectionists, they alone
understand the trick is not to try,
that once you believe in death, you must surely die.
--Michalle Gould
Sunday, April 5, 2015
It's Easter
I just spent the last hour reading poetry on death, crying through most of them, and thinking each one would be my choice for my Easter poem. But then the next, I always loved the next too. I finally stopped reading on this one.
The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
From: http://catchingdays.cynthianewberrymartin.com/2015/04/01/how-we-spend-our-days-katrina-kenison/
"My husband props up his iPad at the breakfast table, eats his oatmeal, and reads the Times online. Yesterday morning, I did the same—a mistake. The front-page story was about a young black vet in Atlanta suffering from PTSD who was running naked through his apartment complex. It was perfectly clear to anyone with eyes that he was unarmed. A cop shot him anyway. Twice through the chest. Once my tears began, they wouldn’t stop. I spent the day in aimless mourning, grieving for all that is wrong—with me, with us, with our country, our world. I took a long walk and made soup and talked with both my sons and didn’t write a word.
Today I sit down with my bowl of fruit and the book that arrived in the mail yesterday, Abigail Thomas’s new memoir about aging and writing, illness and grief and friendship. The title is perfect for those of us who’ve rounded that corner into the homestretch of middle-age, who struggle daily to make our own peace with life as it is: What Comes Next and How to Like It. We are all hoping to learn the secret.
“I wasn’t writing all the time,” this marvelous writer admits on page nineteen. “Days, sometimes weeks would go by without my doing anything at all. I began to feel like something left too long in the vegetable drawer. Then I had the bright idea of starting a weekly writing workshop. There would be a point to me!”
No wonder I love her. And oh, the joy of beginning the day with good sentences—priming the pump rather than bleeding the heart.
My husband fills a Tupperware container with the remains of last night’s dinner, brushes his teeth, claps a baseball cap on his head and makes his exit. I’m grateful for his good cheer, his work, his steadiness. It’s not lost on me these days that while I’m between books, he’s earning the salary that allows my life to be what it is: a luxury of time. For the next nine hours, the house is mine.
Resisting Abby’s good company (this is hard, but it’s a writing day) I close my book and survey the scene.
Once, a student in my own weekly writing class told us that she writes every day, all the time—in doctors’ waiting rooms, at stoplights, while on hold on the telephone, in the middle of the night. She flipped open a well-used notebook full of her dense scribbles—snippets of essays and scenes and dialogue and prose poems awaiting her finishing touch. I was in awe of her output. It occurred to me that, really, I should be taking a writing class from her.
Were it not for the words I somehow have managed to write, and the thousands of hours I’ve spent sitting in my kitchen and staring out the window in order to produce them, I could not call myself a writer. I do not write at stoplights or in the middle of the night or while on hold. Not ever. I write in hard-won secret pockets of time, in solitude. I sit still as a hunter perched in a blind in the forest, breathing quietly, waiting for words to come into view.
This morning, before I reach for my laptop, I need to get a few things done. I water the houseplants, fill the birdfeeder, start a load of laundry and vacuum the dog hair off the floor. Scrub the stubborn remnants from last night’s roasting pan, carry the recycling out to the bin, straighten the magazines on the coffee table, scribble a grocery list for later.
Setting the house to rights is unavoidably, irrevocably, part of my process. It’s not always easy to know where to draw the line. The other day my friend Maezen, author of three fine books and an archive of brilliant articles, and a Buddhist priest who knows a thing or two about discipline, posted this on Facebook: “I’ve washed every shower curtain in the house. I think this means it is time to write again.”
My first thought: “No, no, there must be grout to clean yet.” My house is never tidier than when I’m preparing to head off into the silent woods of myself. Before I can slip away, I must always rinse out the sink, fold the dishtowel.
Now, my house-wifely duties done, I stand once again at the kitchen counter, gaze out to the mountains, and call my friend. I listen to a heart-rending account of last days and final hours, family members arriving, memories spilling forth. My task in this moment is simply to be here, phone at my ear, holding space for her tears. It occurs to me that “How we spend our days” goes hand-in-hand with “This too, and this too.” Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin, reminding us simply to embrace all the truths of our lives with wise and tender hearts."
"My husband props up his iPad at the breakfast table, eats his oatmeal, and reads the Times online. Yesterday morning, I did the same—a mistake. The front-page story was about a young black vet in Atlanta suffering from PTSD who was running naked through his apartment complex. It was perfectly clear to anyone with eyes that he was unarmed. A cop shot him anyway. Twice through the chest. Once my tears began, they wouldn’t stop. I spent the day in aimless mourning, grieving for all that is wrong—with me, with us, with our country, our world. I took a long walk and made soup and talked with both my sons and didn’t write a word.
Today I sit down with my bowl of fruit and the book that arrived in the mail yesterday, Abigail Thomas’s new memoir about aging and writing, illness and grief and friendship. The title is perfect for those of us who’ve rounded that corner into the homestretch of middle-age, who struggle daily to make our own peace with life as it is: What Comes Next and How to Like It. We are all hoping to learn the secret.
“I wasn’t writing all the time,” this marvelous writer admits on page nineteen. “Days, sometimes weeks would go by without my doing anything at all. I began to feel like something left too long in the vegetable drawer. Then I had the bright idea of starting a weekly writing workshop. There would be a point to me!”
No wonder I love her. And oh, the joy of beginning the day with good sentences—priming the pump rather than bleeding the heart.
My husband fills a Tupperware container with the remains of last night’s dinner, brushes his teeth, claps a baseball cap on his head and makes his exit. I’m grateful for his good cheer, his work, his steadiness. It’s not lost on me these days that while I’m between books, he’s earning the salary that allows my life to be what it is: a luxury of time. For the next nine hours, the house is mine.
Resisting Abby’s good company (this is hard, but it’s a writing day) I close my book and survey the scene.
Once, a student in my own weekly writing class told us that she writes every day, all the time—in doctors’ waiting rooms, at stoplights, while on hold on the telephone, in the middle of the night. She flipped open a well-used notebook full of her dense scribbles—snippets of essays and scenes and dialogue and prose poems awaiting her finishing touch. I was in awe of her output. It occurred to me that, really, I should be taking a writing class from her.
Were it not for the words I somehow have managed to write, and the thousands of hours I’ve spent sitting in my kitchen and staring out the window in order to produce them, I could not call myself a writer. I do not write at stoplights or in the middle of the night or while on hold. Not ever. I write in hard-won secret pockets of time, in solitude. I sit still as a hunter perched in a blind in the forest, breathing quietly, waiting for words to come into view.
This morning, before I reach for my laptop, I need to get a few things done. I water the houseplants, fill the birdfeeder, start a load of laundry and vacuum the dog hair off the floor. Scrub the stubborn remnants from last night’s roasting pan, carry the recycling out to the bin, straighten the magazines on the coffee table, scribble a grocery list for later.
Setting the house to rights is unavoidably, irrevocably, part of my process. It’s not always easy to know where to draw the line. The other day my friend Maezen, author of three fine books and an archive of brilliant articles, and a Buddhist priest who knows a thing or two about discipline, posted this on Facebook: “I’ve washed every shower curtain in the house. I think this means it is time to write again.”
My first thought: “No, no, there must be grout to clean yet.” My house is never tidier than when I’m preparing to head off into the silent woods of myself. Before I can slip away, I must always rinse out the sink, fold the dishtowel.
Now, my house-wifely duties done, I stand once again at the kitchen counter, gaze out to the mountains, and call my friend. I listen to a heart-rending account of last days and final hours, family members arriving, memories spilling forth. My task in this moment is simply to be here, phone at my ear, holding space for her tears. It occurs to me that “How we spend our days” goes hand-in-hand with “This too, and this too.” Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin, reminding us simply to embrace all the truths of our lives with wise and tender hearts."
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Why can't we?
Taken from the Life Learning FB page:
Views are changing.
"I'm not anti-college. College is the right path for certain individuals and for certain specific career choices, yes. But.... college is not the be-all, end-all; and college is not the path for everyone; and a college degree should not be a status symbol. It's a tool (an expensive tool), and the decision to go shouldn't be taken lightly. The antiquated notion that *everyone* should aspire to go to college baffles me. There are many many different paths one can take to a happy, healthy, and productive life, and many of them do not involve college at all."
Views are changing.
"I'm not anti-college. College is the right path for certain individuals and for certain specific career choices, yes. But.... college is not the be-all, end-all; and college is not the path for everyone; and a college degree should not be a status symbol. It's a tool (an expensive tool), and the decision to go shouldn't be taken lightly. The antiquated notion that *everyone* should aspire to go to college baffles me. There are many many different paths one can take to a happy, healthy, and productive life, and many of them do not involve college at all."
I know a high school senior who can’t sleep because she’s so worried about whether she’ll be accepted at the college of her choice. This is nuts. It’s also absu...rd that a four-year college education should be the only gateway into the American middle class. Not everyone is suited to college, nor does everyone need it. We desperately need a world-class system of vocational-technical education. Many of tomorrow’s good jobs will go to technicians who install, service, repair, and upgrade high-tech machinery. Even today, it’s hard to find skilled plumbers and electricians.
Yet we cling to a cultural conceit that four years of college is necessary for everyone, and look down on those who don’t have a college degree. Germany – whose median wage (after taxes and transfers) is higher than ours – trains many of its young people to be world-class technicians. Why can’t we?
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Someone who is unafraid to be herself
"Yes, it's true - our culture defines beauty as A, B, and C, and cross-culturally around the world throughout all of time everyone has defined "symmetry" as beautiful. Which means how outwardly beautiful you are deemed is largely luck, and trying to change that tends to to be a soul-sucking goal on which to spend your limited money, energy and time on. The truth is also that most of us do it to some extent but "living an examined life" about how much you want to give toward caring about your outward appearance is very important, because everytime you give toward trying to be more beautiful you will have less to give toward other areas of life.
What I find helpful to remember is that someone else is always going to be more beautiful than you. The less that bothers you, the more space you'll have to become who you actually are - a woman full of confidence, humor and grace. And most people agree that those qualities make for a profoundly better life than traditional beauty."
The consensus also seems to be that the way in which I will have the most influence in helping them learn this is to believe it myself. I really like that.
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