Today I received on of those mass emailings from an old friend going on about Muslims denying the Holocaust and not wanting it taught in schools in the UK. This was my response to him:

“Please think about the messages that you send. This one is denouncing hate and bigotry of one group (Jewish), but promoting it for another group (Muslim). The truth is that no individual represents an entire group. To say that the entire group of Muslims is offended by teaching about the Holocaust because they say it never occurred is just perpetuating stereotypes and hates. “Muslims” do not say that it didn’t occur. Maybe SOME very vocal Muslims may say that, but I can assure you that the entire population of Muslims know very well that this tragedy DID indeed happen and don’t want it repeated. I also know for a fact that as a group Muslims are facing unprecedented amounts of persecution in the US and around the world FOR THEIR FAITH and SKIN COLOR. They seem to make easy targets these days. Of all groups, it seems that Christians have a responsibility to stand up for people being able to believe what they want to and not be persecuted for their faith. Are there bad Muslim ideologies out there that lead to destruction? Sure. But there are also bad Jewish and Christian ideologies out there that lead to destruction. Does that mean that you should spread hate messages for all Jews and Christians as well?

Unfortunately, it is very easy (as you know) to find ignorant Christians, Muslims, Jews, Whites, Blacks, Browns, _______ (fill in the blank). To say that the words of one or a couple of them apply to the entire group is just wrong and leads to hate and separation. Please don’t spread that. I always thought that you were about spreading love and understanding, not this crap.”

I also asked to be removed from his mailing list. 

I don’t understand why so the content in so many of these hate messages either compare a current situation or person to the Holocaust or Hitler or Nazis or evokes 9/11.  Instead of dealing with facts, it seems that there is a knee-jerk reaction to pull out the most emotion-inducing tragic situations that we in the western world actually remember.  (Because there are many other holocausts and many other dictators from world history and even modern times that could be used, but of course then there would be the risk of people not knowing what was being talked about.  Gotta keep it simple.)

Every Muslim that I know (and, yes, I do know quite a few) are so incredibly average and…boring.  They shop, they try to follow religious traditions, they raise kids with love, they come to work and get stressed out, they excel & make mistakes, they laugh and joke around, they take the car to the mechanic to get it fixed.  They even fart. Just like you.  Just like me.

A couple of the girls do wear head scarves, but, oh yeah, I wear neck scarves.  It’s a personal preference.  So what?  One even wears the long black abaya.  So what?  She still does all of the above (although I’ve never heard her fart).  The explanation actually makes sense:

The reason for this strictness is so that the woman is protected from the lustful gaze of men. She should not attract attention to herself in any way. It is permissible for a man to catch the eye of a woman, however it is haram (unlawful) for a man to look twice as this encourages lustful thoughts.

Islam protects the woman; it is for this reason that Allah gave these laws. In today’s society womankind is being exploited, female sexuality is being openly used in advertising, mainly to attract the desires of men and therefore sell the product. Is the woman really free in today’s society? The answer is obviously no. The constant bombardment by the media as to how the ideal woman should look and dress testifies to this.

This makes sense especially considering what one friend who moved to Saudi told me.  She said that basically the men over there are pigs: staring, commenting, etc.  It seems that sexual control has been placed entirely on the women.  That’s not exactly healthy or fair, but given the situation, I can understand why women put such an emphasis on covering themselves.

But before I keep rambling…

My point is: Let’s quit judging and spreading hate and separation of groups.  Instead, how about a bit of understanding and acceptance of other cultures and traditions?  Isn’t that what Christians have wanted and expected all of these years?  So why not extend it out to other groups?  Can we hate the actions of those that spread hate?  Sure, but sending out these emails is no different, it’s just on another level.

(Stock photos-except WWII photo- from 123RF.)

My brother, who I haven’t seen in years, sat in front of me without saying a word. My sister was a seat away to my left with the same level of intimacy. And I struggled to keep the tears from dripping as I realized that things really had changed and yes, I WAS actually being ignored by both of them. The first reaction was mentally probing what I could possibly have done to these two people to deserve the treatment. Once my thoughts got past myself ;o), the root cause became pretty clear: my mother. The situations are different, but my mom is at the heart of it all.  I don’t say that with blame, but rather just as an understanding.

So, from there, the next step was: How to respond? I had heard that we should never estrange from our family unless the relationship is harmful because they are in our lives to teach us about ourselves and our place in the world.  But this past year, I’ve been coming to the conclusion that we all deserve to be treated with respect even, and maybe especially, from our family.  Sometimes it really is healthiest for both parties to just step back.  From my sister, I just withdrew.  She has hurt me about as much as can be tolerated and perhaps I have hurt her enough, also. I really don’t know.  She has her space to grow and reach for whatever branches on whatever kind of tree truly make her fulfilled and I am free from her judgement and accusations.

With my brother though, it was different. Despite our political & religious differences and past crap, I’ve always felt close to my brother and just overlooked his lack of response.  I’ve also gotten used to maneuvering around his wife treating me like I am part of some sort of heathen-based, unenlightened infection on the earth that has to be tolerated. I have purposefully stayed far away from years of conflict between him, my mom, my sister-in-law and eventually my sister.  In fact, I very intentionally and openly stayed out of the last clash that took place YEARS ago.  But somehow, I’ve still been lumped in.

It occurred to me that ALL OF MY LIFE I have been trying to prove to my mom, my dad, my sister, my brother, his wife, my ex-husband, my supervisor, my co-workers that I AM NOT a piece of garbage to mock and toss aside and that I do deserve. Period. I deserve. Add whatever (positive) words that come to mind to that sentence. I deserve. It’s not until this relationship with Paul that I am FINALLY accepting that I deserve to be loved and treated like one of the Beautiful Ones. I am FINALLY accepting that I matter to someone. I am FINALLY accepting at this point in my life that my friends really DO care about me & what I do or don’t do DOES impact them. I have just accepted and expected that I don’t matter; at the core.

Somehow, I had offended not only my sister, but my brother and his wife as well. As I sat behind them, I resolved to pull my brother aside & ask him what I had done to him. What could cause you to not want to hug or even acknowledge your sister after not seeing each other for fours years?  My other decision was to be as kind and intentionally “myself” as possible for the rest of the day. That was the start of the letting-go.

By the time we all sat at the same table for lunch, my brother, sister-in-law & I had broken the ice. My sister excused herself shortly after we arrived.  Again, I trust that she is taking the steps that she feels are necessary for her own growth.  I just enjoyed the company of my dad and his siblings and went through the emotional process in the background of my heart of disconnecting and accepting. By the time we were done with lunch, I realized that it didn’t matter what I had done to offend my brother and sister-in-law. That was THEIRS to hang on to or let go, not mine.

I have created my own (very complex and diverse) family of people-some blood, most not- who genuinely care about and respect me…and somehow find a way to  tell me about AND accept my faults.  That’s all that I need and what I DO hang on to with a very firm grasp.  I don’t need to defend myself and I don’t need to prove my worth and never did.

My brother & I hugged good-bye.  He said, quite genuinely, that it had been nice to see me.  I told him, also with sincerity, the same.  But then I walked away and, on a very deep level, let him go, trusting that he will do what is best for his journey.

I don’t know if he did or didn’t deserve to die and don’t care to make that judgment, but his death WAS symbolic and not simple. I will judge that it was pretty shitty for him to put his wife in place to take a bullet for him (if that is indeed what happened).

I’ve purposely NOT been listening to the news or pseudo-news about this, but instead have been listening to my friends, co-workers, acquaintances. I’ve been listening for sincere thoughts and talking points. They’re not too difficult to discern.

Let’s let him rest, let’s let this rest, let’s let our troops rest, let’s let the people of Iraq and Afghanistan and Pakistan rest. Let’s let our own inner Evil rest and just take a break, shall we? The closing credits could read completely different.

Every year, sometimes even before the last bit of slushy snow has sponged its way into the ground, and certainly before the last clumpy wet snow fall, the daffodils begin to push their way out of the ground.

Sylvester sat in front of me in my history class in high school.  We were doing our family trees and he showed me his.  My cousin was also in the class so I copied half of her tree and my other half was empty.  I didn’t know the names for the sperm side of my tree.

Sylvester’s great-grandma’s name was “Alynia”.  The name instantly resonated with me and I wanted to be an “Alynia”.  I would imagine Sylvester’s great-grandma as always a young, beautiful woman with a wide nose, angular face and long, graceful body like Sylvester’s.  Her eyes, like his, carried smiles and kindness.

In my history class fantasies, she and my grandmother were friends.  Eventually, they merged to one: Alynia Irene, my grandma’s Italian blood mixing with his great-grandma’s African roots to create the most beautiful dark brown almond eyes to hide a quick fiery temper.  She didn’t let anyone take her for granted and didn’t care who tried to define her.  She knew her strength, she knew her path, she knew her heart.  They could turn, twist, manipulate to fulfill whatever inner angst needed to be fed, but it would never cost Alynia Irene.  Instead, she laughed and shook her hips and put marigolds in her hair.  She and I danced through history as Mr. Whinna spoke of wars, winners and timelines.

When I was pregnant, I dreamed of giving birth to Alynia Irene. The dream ended with the ultrasound that had an arrow pointing to the little extra bit of white, not-finger-not-toe.  Afterward, Alynia became my unborn daughter, my guardian angel, my goddess, my existential best friend.

When my thoughts drift to her, I find myself  wishing for the big cosmic soup where all souls blend together so that when I die we can meet, and she can hold me and tell me that I am HER unborn daughter, that there was a mistake, dear, let’s just try this whole Life thing one more time.

(Photo by Charles Perry)

Come on sweetheart
Let’s adore one another
Before there is no more
of you and me.” ~Rumi

The first day she sat in a circle of women and one guy who seemed a bit awkward and didn’t stay.
The room was cold and had a nursery rhyme rug and a piano.
And she wrote-never much and never a very far step away from a bunch of cliches-but she wrote.

And she listened-
to relationships ending,
pieces being picked up,
sometimes pieces just being moved from one pile to another.

She witnessed fragile beginnings,
at times watching the sapling grow into a strong beautiful tree
and other times getting mowed over before the roots could really sink in.

The safety
the prompts
the non-judgment
the space
allowed her to dig into her own pieces
and rooms
and dreams
and dark places
and relationships.

Crying was ok,
laughing was ok,
not responding was just as ok.

She thought when working in the nursing home that people were so much more real right before they died. There was a vulnerability and a lack of needing to prove or protect oneself. The relationships were fast and deep and cut to the meaningful shit real quick. She used to mourn that that only happened at the end, when the person was dancing or stumbling out of their (and her) life. She wished to find that without the death.

That space was her writing class for 3 years.
Or was it 4?
Who knows, really?
It’s one of those things measured in experiences,
not duration;
Quantified by how deep it penetrates and changes,
not how many classes have been attended.
____________
I was told that the truest truths have no words and, once again, I don’t have the words for what this class and teacher and my fellow students have meant to me and the impact on who I am today.  I wanted to write and hand them a diamond, but this feels more like a couple of pebbles in comparison to what is in my heart.   But I have reached a “for now” finish line.  I’m ready to not run, but cautiously and reluctantly cross that line and be open to what is on the other side.

bike: around town
(mostly back & forth to work)

car: around the area
(visiting friends/family in WI/IL/MN)

plane: around the country and to another one
(Ireland and PA for work and Mexico for fun)

writing: around the mind
(a future trip to India and back into some of those little closets)

books: around the world
(Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie took me to The Thing Around Your Neck in Nigeria, V.S. Naipaul was my escort to A Bend in the River, Wally Lamb took me inside York Prison and Harriet Lerner led the tour through Anger & Intimacy).

2011 will consist of the same modes of transportation, but new destinations and travel guides added to the old.

“…any life I might have anywhere…would only be a version of the life I lived now…I knew there was more to me than my setting and routine showed.  I knew there was something that separated me from Ferdinand and the life of the bush about me.  And it was because I had no means in my day-to-day life of asserting this difference, of exhibiting my true self, that I fell into the stupidity of exhibiting my things.”  ~V.S. Naipaul, A Bend in the River

Future self to Current self:
Embrace
Get outside and walk more
Start taking steps now towards all of those goals
Stay involved
Run

Current self to Past self:
Embrace
Get outside and walk more
Start taking steps now towards all of those goals
Stay involved
Run

I didn’t run the marathon and didn’t stay-in/find a serious primary relationship and didn’t go back to school and didn’t do a bunch of other things.

But it’s ok.  There’s always next year.  And if I don’t have next year, it’s still ok, ’cause it just wouldn’t matter then, right?

And besides, lots of other really cool stuff that wasn’t planned or spelled out in a goal was experienced. And I didn’t do any of the less than optimal things like randomly quit my job.

2011?  Maybe, but even if not, there will be lots more cool, crazy experiences that can’t be imagined right now.

(Wednesday night in writing class, the prompt was “say Goodbye”.  I was feeling a bit annoyed and had already recently written about that for reverb10, so after venting through my pen for a few minutes, I focused on the next reverb10 prompt.)

I spoke-up-to-out-for-solid-truth-my truth.
Without drama, without explanation, I said “no” or “yes” or whatever it was that was needed.
I told her my boundaries so she could quit expecting my friendship.
I told him my concerns-turns out that they were his also-and he altered the path a bit.
I explained my view and she eventually admitted that how I was treated wasn’t right.
I spoke and each time healed and looked that scared teenager in the eye so she would know that she matters and has a say in this whole bloody journey.

That was emotional healing.  I found an amazing massage therapist, Joe Dunn, for body healing.   He pushes DEEP and really works the muscles and connective tissue.  He’s into mind and body healing and tells me about his latest read or other therapies and has just a really accepting, giving energy.

The writing retreat on Linda’s Farm was healing, as was discovering that people actually would buy my old crap on Craigslist. (I love Craigslist, btw.  Not as much as I love Leonard Cohen, but still…love.)

Seeing Shira & Caleb and sending them off into the next part of their journey after their mom died: that was healing.  If I could wrap two kids into my heart and protect them from ever being hurt again, it would be Shira & Caleb.

OK, well, crap, I hadn’t realized how many ways I was healed last year.  There were just so many small things that could make up a mighty long list.  At the time they just seemed like “what happens” or the thing to do or whatever, but well, crap!
That’s just kind of cool.

Doing reverb10…healing.

(My son just suggested that I write a post about the music that he has introduced me to.  Makes me smile.  It’s coming…with links.)