hold your breath

 I saw a post on Instagram today, written by a daughter about her mother. She often heard people talking about how mothers love their children. She didn't experience that because her own mother was cruel. Trying to explain her mother to other people often ended in them repeating platitudes she had heard all of her adult life. People with a loving mother can't imagine what it's like, she said, to grow up without the steady and sure love of a mother.

The post was hard to read. My mother could be fun. We often laughed together. But just when you felt safe and unguarded, she'd unleash a whammy - a cutting remark that tore into your soul and had you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself. She masked cruelty with humor. I was just kidding, she'd say, why are you so sensitive?

It was the same for all four of us. But we didn't discover that until she was on her deathbed. She put so much energy into keeping us apart that we each thought we were the only victim. In our 60s and 70s now, we timidly share our stories and commiserate with each other. But each of us is waiting, it seems, for the other shoe to drop. I love them, but I can't quite trust them. Her legacy.

we are the women that time near forgot

 Hear the call of ancient trees, breathing for us, ssssssssss and whoooooo.
Aren't they alive in us and for us? We drink their air and bless their beauty.

I am an old woman and I sometimes forget.
That mine were the people of healing and birth.
If I stand very still and listen to wind,
I feel new branches sprouting from my skin.

But oh, the axe man could not believe,
The reverence with which we were adorned.
So, he and his kin chopped us all down,
Seizing our power and burning our bodies.

Instead of unity came power and control.
Instead of healing they stole and destroyed.
They seemed to be monsters - so many, so loud,
They cried when we spoke and laughed when we frowned.

Soon we will take from them the axe and the saw.
Soon we will send them to places of no return.
We will join in a circle and show off our leaves,
We'll dance with the joy of a newly freed bud.

And sing? We will sing! A song of our blood,
A song of the precious life force WE contain,
A song about giving and healing and love,
A song to rekindle our heart's warmest wishes.

We'll seek to embrace everything gentle and wise.
We'll walk through the night without fear of the axe.
We'll build a new world that knows sharing and grace.
For we are the women that time near forgot.

mom was right

 Today, as I was searching for something new to watch, I stumbled on the I Love Lucy show. Our family didn't watch this show. Mother was an early feminist and felt that the depiction of Lucy Ricardo was horrible. When the show was on the air, she only had one daughter, but by the time reruns were airing, she had three daughters. She said that she didn't want any of us to see this ridiculous portrayal of a ditzy, scheming, immature adult woman whose husband sometimes spanked her for her "bad" behavior.

As I grew up, it just never occurred to me to try to watch it. And well into my adult years, I just never did. I did catch a few episodes of The Lucy Show and Here's Lucy along the way, but they didn't hook me. I thought they were less offensive and that Lucy's character was more mature, but it still didn't hook me.

Mom died in 2016. Since that time, I've thought about a lot of things that she said or did. In more than one case, I've found that my perceptions of certain people, places, or things have changed. So, today, when I saw the I Love Lucy show, I decided that I owed it to myself to watch it. I managed to get about five minutes into the second episode when I realized that Mom was right. The portrayal of Lucy Ricardo is ridiculous and misogynist.

I do want to separate Lucille Ball from the show, however. She was a brilliant woman who accomplished so many things. She often discussed the many men she met throughout her career who told her she would never be successful in show business. As a woman, she was the epitome of a woman succeeding in the world despite the many men who tried to stand in her way. And in that, she and my Mom had a lot in common!

the gate

 We've known each other for FIFTY YEARS. Sometimes we're on. Sometimes we're off. He married someone else. Then I married someone else. Then I divorced. Then he divorced. Then we were together. Then he married someone else. Then he divorced. Then we were together again. Then I met someone else. Then he met someone else. Now we're together again. Obviously, we're weirdos.

This morning, as he was arriving for his third week on a new job, he said, "You should see the security gate at my new job. I'll take a picture of it to show you."

I said, "No, you will NOT take a picture of the security gate." He asked why. "Because if they have a break-in, they'll look at the surveillance tapes and see you taking a picture of the gate. Next thing you know, you're in a basement room at the police station being interrogated."

WHY WERE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF THE SECURITY GATE? DID YOU STUDY THE GATE TO SEE HOW TO GET IN? WERE YOU PART OF THE BREAK-IN? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE STOLEN COMPUTERS? TELL US THE TRUTH!!!

"Then you'd tell them that you were just taking a picture to send to your girlfriend."

OH, SO YOU HAVE AN ACCOMPLICE!!! TELL US WHO SHE IS!

"They'd snatch your phone and see it was me. Then I'd have cops knocking on my door."

COULD YOU STEP OUTSIDE, MA'AM?

"My 11 pound chiweenie, who has never had any ability to judge when to back off, would go in for the kill. The police would open fire to try to stop her, with every shot missing because she's too quick. But then I would need to defend her, so I would grab cans of soup that I bought to eat when I run out of stuff that I actually do want to eat. I would pelt the officers with my cans of soup. I would eventually get arrested and jailed, wearing either orange, which does NOT look good on me, or horizontal black and white stripes, which don't look good on anyone except girls who wear size 00."

"Girl, you are nuts. Nobody is going to do all of that because I took a picture of the gate."

"You know the first thing they'd serve me in prison? Tomato soup. I'd tell the guards Y'ALL THINK Y'ALL ARE FUNNY and I would throw the tomato soup. Now I'm in solitary confinement wearing an unflattering jumpsuit stained with tomato soup. All because you just HAD to take that picture!"

"I swear to God, you make me laugh so hard. I will NOT take a picture of that gate."

"You certainly won't. I love you, but not enough to go to prison for you."

"I love you, too, crazy girl."

no plot twists

 What if you were handed a timeline of your life at the very beginning? You knew exactly who the angels would be and who the demons would be. You could make no changes to the timeline, so if it said you would marry Bob Smith on December 11, 2015, then you would. If it said that Bob would have an affair, then that would happen, too. The only thing you could control would be how you responded to each event. Would your life have been better? Or worse? Would being able to go back and change the way you responded to something, would it have made your life better?

in-laws

My parents divorced when I was eight years old. Neither one of them ever said an unkind word about the other. After I reached college, my mother occasionally said something, but it didn't amount to much. My father remained silent on the subject of my mother all the way to his death at the age of 94. Mother died two years prior to that, but Daddy still held his tongue.

My in-laws were not quite so polite. Upon meeting me for the first time, my mother-in-law turned to my husband and remarked, "I don't think her teeth are that bad." My husband helpfully repeated that to me, which should have given me some insight into what to expect, but alas, I still expected people to behave. They didn't.

In our first gathering of his family, I listened intently as his mother, stepfather, sisters, and brother excitedly shared their various strategies for achieving a great tan that summer. It was October. There was talk of iodine mixed with baby oil, butter, various tanning oils, and other ideas. Then there was a pause and they all looked at me.

My paternal grandmother lived for 99 years and studiously avoided the sun. Even late in her life when she and Granddaddy took up golf, she wore a tea length day dress, long gloves, stockings, and a huge, brimmed hat. Her skin was like rare porcelain. Needless to say, "tanning" was not really important to me.

But I felt the weight of expectation as my in-laws all stared at my untanned skin. I thought I would make a joke to lighten the mood. I said, "You're probably wondering how I achieve this specific shade of pale. I slather my entire body with mayonnaise, then sit in a dark closet all summer long."

NOBODY even cracked a smile. We just all sat there awkwardly. I thought I was making fun of myself. They clearly thought I was making fun of them. Maybe I was.

A few minutes later, someone asked me what I did for a living. I explained that I worked in a mental health clinic. My clients were long-term mentally ill patients and alcohol & drug patients. There was another long pause while everyone stared at me. It was only later that I found out my husband's two sisters were crack addicts, and that his brother was an alcoholic. And just to make things as awful as they possibly could be, my new mother-in-law was also an alcoholic. She had been married five times to five different alcoholics.

On our next visit, I was six months pregnant with our son. My mother-in-law offered me a glass of wine. I gestured to my belly and shook my head. She replied, "Oh, Honey, I smoked and drank through all five of my pregnancies and it didn't hurt my children at all."

Well, I suppose I should count it as a miracle that the marriage lasted three years. How did it end, you ask? My husband joined a bowling league. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol up until then. Suddenly, he started coming home every Wednesday night drunk as a skunk. He was an amorous drunk, so I took to barricading myself and the baby in a bedroom on Wednesday nights.

After multiple repeats, I talked him into going to marriage counseling. Over time, he agreed to go to an outpatient men's group that was for men trying to work out if they had an addiction problem. But before the first meeting, he went home to visit his family. His mother told him that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him and that I was a lunatic. When he came home, he announced that he would not be going to those meetings and that he would not be returning to counseling.

I put it to him plainly. I said that he needed to choose which was more important - alcohol or his wife and son. He chose alcohol and moved out. No doubt his mother was very pleased.

During our divorce proceedings, my brother-in-law called me to let me know that they were all prepared to lie in court to make sure his brother got custody of our son, unless I agreed to a minimal child support payment. I agreed to what his lawyer proposed - the absolute minimum child support payment in our state at that time. And throughout my son's childhood, I never asked for an increase. And following my parents' example, I never spoke one unkind word about my ex-husband to my son until he was a grown man. Again, his father and my in-laws were never quite as kind.

I can say, without reservation, that my son is the best thing that ever happened to me. What I went through to get him and keep him was worth it. I'll always think so.

girl

The brown-skinned girl upstairs has a heavy footfall.
I hear her bang-bang-bang-bang-bang across the ceiling.
Always a count of five, she scampers with a rhythm that is musical.

I’m annoyed.
But in everything, I look for purpose and reason.
So, I am screwing up my courage,
               to decipher her meaning in my life.

She is the little girl in me who got stepped on.
I walk through life with unhealed bruises.
I attract people who bruise me more,
               perhaps because I hide the ones already there.

She has me trapped in a symphony of running feet.
I’ve been running all my life.
I run to find my home, a place I can never seem to find.

I’m not one to report noisy neighbors.
But I’m so easily annoyed by things I can’t control,
               which is everything, of course. Confounding.

On a path to nowhere, she runs. I run.
I ran here to escape the love that binds me.
Distance, it would seem, is not the fix I keep aiming for.

She is wild and free. How I wish I could be wild and free.
Maybe I’m jealous? Because I can’t start over.
I can’t remember his face, the one who hurt me so.

Let my hair fly in the wind.
Let my dress flap around me.
I’m not running because I’m scared.

I’m running because I’m free.

i am dog

In looked so nice when
I was out. Out looks better
now, though. I am dog.

Now out, looking in.
Plaintive expression. Do I
smell bacon? I am dog.

xenization, part 2

 Here is the history of my homes:

1958-1959 Durham, NC
1959-1964 Nishinomiya, Japan
1964-1968 Wellesley, MA
1968-1973 Gainesville, GA
1973-1980 Misenheimer, NC
1980-1981 Jersey City, NJ
1981-1983 Cedartown, GA & Aragon, GA
1983-1984 Misenheimer, NC
1984-1985 Thomson, GA
1985-1993 Statesboro, GA
1993-1998 Morrow, GA
1998-2002 Jonesboro, GA
2002-2004 Scottsdale, AZ
2004-2006 Morris Plains, NJ
2006-2008 Phoenix, AZ
2008-2010 Memphis, TN
2010-2012 Eagleville, PA
2012-2013 Duluth, GA
2013-2015 Peoria, AZ
2015-2020 Phoenix, AZ
2020-2024 Brunswick, GA

Cue Johnny Cash. "I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere."

fitbit

When my Fitbit died, I stopped walking, which wasn't a smart decision. Yesterday, my new Fitbit arrived. I got it charged and put it on. Then I felt the urge to walk. I decided to take a bag of trash to the dumpster and pick up my mail on the way back. When I went outside, I realized it was later than I thought - just after 9 p.m. But I was determined, so I set off.

Our parking lots are not well lit, so as I walked, I was paying close attention to any movement or sound. Having watched or listened to hundreds of shows on murder, I know how these things happen. I mentally planned escape routes. lol

I made it to the dumpster, then backtracked to the mailbox. My mailbox is on the bottom of a column. As I bent down to open my box, I felt my back go out. NO!!! I got the mail and stood up. I knew immediately I was in trouble.

My back injury dates back to 2005 when I was lifting a box of books and bending over to place it in the trunk of my car. If you had told me then that I would be dealing with it for the rest of my life, I would have jumped off a cliff. Now, I'm used to it. For now, Aleve and a heating pad are what I need to slowly recover. But I'm always aware that it can happen without warning. Once it happened when I was stepping into a skort!

Anyway, I started my walk back. The buildings in my complex are long, with two entrances each, 12 apartments for each entrance. My apartment is in the fourth building from the mailbox. (There are many more buildings in the opposite direction.) I made it to the first entrance of the first building and could go no further. I walked to the staircase and sat down. I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't call anyone for help.

Just then, a car pulled up. I was desperate. I walked over to the driver and explained my predicament. I asked if he would PLEASE give me a ride to my building. He did! As we slowly drove along, it occurred to me that I had just gotten in the car with a complete stranger, the subject of many murder stories. Oh, well, I thought. I've had a good, long life. If he murders me, at least I'll be out of pain!

But he didn't murder me. He was a perfect gentleman. I thanked him profusely and staggered into my apartment. I'm now at the Aleve and heating pad portion of the program. And I have slept SO MUCH!!! I am on the mend - for now.

violet

 I met a Frenchman in my dreams, on the banks of a water feature. The grass felt cool under my bare feet and I was looking out across the landscape of trees and rolling hills. He was at a gathering hosted by my neighbor and came over to talk to me, thinking I was at the gathering, too.

Dreams progress in stops and starts, so it's no surprise that I was then giving him a tour of the house I was staying in. I explained I was just there until my publisher found more appropriate lodging for me. The house was huge but had very little furniture. My belongings were strewn about.

When we got to the master bedroom, it was vast. We walked through it to the master bathroom, which was separated into a his and hers design, each with its own closet.

Then we were sitting on a sofa in the living room talking and drinking wine. Was he hungry? We went in the kitchen, and I threw something amazing together. What was it? I don't know. Dreams are funny. We sat on kitchen stools at the counter and ate our food. Then he cleaned the kitchen while I sat on my stool and drank wine.

Next, he had found my brush and was behind my stool brushing my long, gray hair. It needs washing, I said. Then he was coloring my hair, using blonde and violet colors. Then I was looking in a mirror admiring my new cut and color. This part of my dream flashed by, unlike the hours I used to spend at the beauty parlor when I was still coloring my hair.

We sat on the sofa and talked some more. Then I said I was tired and went to bed, leaving him in the living room. (What?) I was almost asleep when he slipped into bed beside me. May I sleep here, he asked. Can you behave, I asked him. I pointed to the other side of the bed. It's a big bed, I said. He moved.

My dog woke me up then, pulling me away from the Frenchman in my bed. Isn't it always that way? You find a man who speaks with a French accent, who happily cleans the kitchen, can color, cut, and style your hair, and wants to sleep in your bed, and WHAM! You wake up.

meditation on ants

Two weeks ago, I was being occasionally bitten (stung?) by an ant as I lounged on my living room sofa. The ants were probably attracted to whatever crumbs I dropped. I had nobody to blame but myself. But I also noticed one or two ants in my bathroom. They seemed to be coming up from the door frame. I ordered ant traps.

My sister and I both have Zen Color, a coloring app, on our phones. She discovered it first and told me about it. There are multiple categories of pictures to color. Her favorite, I think, is any that remind her of our time in Japan. My favorite category is Mystery. There is no picture when you start. It gradually appears as you color it. The other day, a mystery puzzle featured colorful ants in a beautiful meadow.

I got bored and added another game to my phone which requires me to find dozens of random items. It's like Where's Waldo, but a little more sophisticated. And on my list of things to find in almost every puzzle? Yep. Ants.

All of that made me think about Biblical references to ants. When preachers talk about it, they're usually extolling the virtues of hard work and industrious ways. But I usually think of it in terms of the collective strength of those ants. I once gave a prayer before a banquet at a professional conference in which I said that a single ant can carry items that are many times its weight, which is amazing. But a colony of ants can move mountains. I wanted us to think of ourselves as a colony of ants, working together to improve the lives of our young people.

Tonight, I was listening to James Taylor's October Road album. In the song September Grass, he sings,

Do you see those ants dancing on a blade of grass?
Do you know what I know, that's you and me, Baby?
We're so small and the world's so vast,
But we found each other down in the grass.

Ants. Maybe they were biting me to tell me to get up off my butt and clean my house. Or maybe they were reminding me of who I've found down in this grass. You. And you. And also - you.

stalked

A bald eagle stalked us on our morning walk today. I should say that the eagle stalked Priscilla and Jackson. I'm sure the eagle detected that I was a load too heavy to maneuver. I first noticed the eagle as he rode the currents above the lake. What a magnificent wonder it was as it tilted this way and that in the air, catching the changing currents of the slightly breezy day.

 

Suddenly, the eagle swooped down in our direction, arresting its dive just above us, clearly studying us. It rested on a small updraft, balancing itself in slight adjustments of its wings and body, staring at us. At only 11 pounds, Priscilla probably looked like a perfectly delicious breakfast. Or maybe Jackson, at 16 pounds looked the better selection. More meat. But eventually the eagle decided against an attempt and flew off across the narrow part of the lake. I watched as it soared back and forth, surveying the ground around the edge of the lake. Finally, I lost interest and continued our walk around the lake, intent on stopping at the cove where baby turtles had recently been born. Last year, only one survived, but I still see it almost every time I scan the water there. It's not big enough to swim out into the lake. There are bass and huge carp in the deeper water, not to mention really big turtles, and don't forget the alligators!

 

But only about 2 minutes later, as we approached the turtle territory, I saw the shadow of a large bird appear across our path just ahead of us. I glanced up and the eagle was back, just behind us and above our heads, measuring (I think) the difficulty level of a Priscilla or Jackson purloin. Again, I gazed up at the beautiful creature with its signature white head. I was mesmerized, even while I was pondering a potential fight with an eagle, because over my dead body would it be taking my babies. Can eagles sense a protector's determination? Maybe. It eventually flew off again and didn't return.

 

cinnamon rolls

So I'm standing at the stove and I'm carefully and artfully spreading white icing on cinnamon rolls to take to my just-moved-in-today upstairs neighbors. Suddenly I hear a sound that startles me because it sounds like it's coming from INSIDE my apartment. It's a metal-on-metal tinkle sound.

I stop, activate my innate, serial-killer-tracking-superpower, and listen HARD for about 30 seconds. Nothing. I go back to my icing and hear it again!!! I stop, alarmed now, and decide to just stroll through my apartment to see if I can hear it. Master, master bath, master closet, Living room, dining room, hall, guest room (Y'ALL COME!), guest bathroom, coat closet, and finally the patio. Nothing but birds and a neighbor's dog barking his usual "WHERE ARE YOU" bark that signals that his parent is not at home.

Satisfied that chopping, hacking, and bloodletting are not about to commence, I return to my cinnamon rolls. Immediately, the faint tinkling begins again. WHAT IS THAT!?!?! Then, I see it. I'm wearing a silk, floor-length caftan that has a laced up section at the upper chest. The ends of the laces have decorative beading, the metal of which is gently hitting the handle of the oven door as I apply icing to the rolls. Cue my eye roll to go with the cinnamon roll.

My imagination is prolific in its ability to transform the ordinary into the worst possible horror. I'd like to blame it on Stephen King, but I was like this long before I read The Shining - and everything that came after.

I ate a cinnamon roll before I took the rest upstairs. I felt this was fair compensation for the 3 months I probably lost off the end of my life. (This really won't age well if I'm visited by an axe murderer tonight.)

 

day of biscuit (fiction)

On the northern edge of Greenville, on the lefthand side of Highway 17 as you drive north towards Dunkerton, there is a burned out shell of a building that used to house the local jail, back when three cells were more than sufficient to house the occasionally out of control members of the small town. The new county facility opened for business in Slaterville in 1992, prompting Sheriff Utter to retire six years after he probably should have. He locked the front door of the jail building and took the key with him, knowing that nobody would be following in his footsteps in little Greenville.

For nine years, that building sat empty until the Frazier twins took up residence in the building when their Pop kicked them out for smoking reefer in his double wide. Pop tolerated a lot, but he did not approve of illegal substances and certainly had no intention of losing his entire property in a drug seizure if either of his boys did something stupid. Mama Frazier cried for three days until she figured out where the boys were staying. After that, she took to bringing them fried chicken and biscuits whenever she could get away with it. To the boys, hunkered in the old building with no electricity or water, her visits felt like jail visits and they were always grateful to see her - and the chicken.

It wasn't until the beginning of winter arrived that the twins discovered that living without electricity was even more challenging when the thermometer dipped below freezing. And that's how they came to build a fire in the outer office and, well, you can guess the rest. The Frazier twins survived, but they moved on down to Alabama to live with an aunt who didn't know any better than to take them in. Her house burned down too, but that's another story.

When Shelly ran out of gas that day, her car coasted to a stop just a few yards from that burned out shell of a jail. She cursed, berating herself for not getting the gas gauge fixed, for not filling up at that last gas station she passed, for not saying NO when her sister asked her to drive down to Greenville to pick her up, and most of all, for choosing the particular shade of green painted on her nails. It was ugly. And now she would have to walk down the highway until she reached civilization with her dayglo nails advertising to the world that she had no taste. Well, maybe not. Maybe she could call June and she'd find someone to bring her five gallons of gas. It was worth a try.

day of noodle (fiction)

Hisashi strolled through Takashimaya Yokohama looking at various sale items. He was early, so he looked over the flower selection, making a mental note to pick up roses on his way out. Maiko would be surprised and pleased.

He turned the corner and spotted Ginza Tenichi where he was meeting Ottokar, the German architect working on final changes to his company's new building. Hisashi had been assigned to entertain him until he completed the project. The bartender approached him as soon as he sat on his stool. "Your best daiginjo, two cups, and keep it coming."

Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that he had killed Otto before the man ever walked into the bar. But in the moment, as he scrolled through text messages from girls who wanted to own him, he was oblivious and resigned to another tedious night of entertaining the boy genius from Dusseldorf.

never letting go

Words gather together, a comical speech.
Two orphans laugh awkwardly, standing across from the gin.
Did you crack the window?
Was it meant to be so?
I'm not giving up.
I'm never letting go.

Dance faster, sing louder,
Spit as far as you can.
When dawn shines her light,
We'll see who triumphed.
Was it the girl in the striped dress?
She's never letting go.

The blue sea is roiling,
The deck to's and fro's,
But his legs hold him steady,
His whistle encourages, that cheerful, expected sound.
He thinks of her letters, on yellow crepe paper.
He's never letting go.

broken treasure

The first art piece I ever purchased - a pottery cat with angel wings - sat broken on my coffee table. Elizabeth was profuse in her apologies. It had certainly been an accident. And I forgave her immediately. There were too many pieces to glue it back together. I threw it in the trash.

not what the postman brought

In the wee, nippy hours of the Arizona night, while others slumber restlessly or dream of lovely things, I sit awake and ponder this unidentified thing inside my body. Will it be a momentary discomfort that I'll prattle on about some day, sitting with the other ladies at the old folk's home? Or is it a demon seed sent to wipe me from the planet, robbing me of the easy years when I'd planned to travel, write, and paint? Time will tell.

trumping

Although I have not lost any of the drive and determination to fight discrimination and injustice, my morning meditation took me in an interesting direction today. Since 1995, I've used a small daily devotional called Pocketful of Miracles (Prayers, Meditations, and Affirmations To Nurture Your Spirit Every Day of the Year) by Joan Borysenko. I'll begin by telling you that I don't do a devotional every day. I'm fairly fickle, in fact. So when I do open this devotional, I often feel I've been led to a particular message.

Today, the message was about forgiveness. More specifically, it was about admitting to myself that what qualities I find most deplorable in others, I may discover in myself, if I am willing to release my defense mechanisms and honestly examine my own heart and soul. This is not the first time I've heard that message, of course. But I willingly followed the thought.

Today's devotional used Hitler as an example. Certainly, Adolph Hitler was a horrific example of how one human can lead others to commit atrocities on an immense scale. His behavior and the actions of his followers should be condemned in the most emphatic language possible.

But in looking at myself, the devotional suggests that I view Hitler as an aspect of myself, as one more altar of God. So as I began my prayer and meditation, my thoughts went immediately to Donald Trump, which is ironic because I meditate to calm myself and Trump has repeatedly raised my stress levels. So there I am, incredulous, looking at his face in my mind and wondering what I'm intended to do with THAT.

The answer came, of course. Trump dismisses women as being worthy only as measured by their appearance. Who do I dismiss? Trump often denies his history or rewrites his history in a more palatable version. What of my history have I rewritten? Trump belittles people, openly mocking their physical attributes. Who do I belittle and mock? Trump dismisses whole swathes of people, signaling his willingness to ignore their humanity and right to exist. What group of people do I dismiss?

I see the altar there. I understand what I'm meant to do. I need to let go of my pride, my judgemental nature, and any likelihood I may have to make broad assumptions about people BEFORE I approach the altar. But when I think of Trump and those who happily follow his horrible example, I can see I have many repetitions of this particular meditation ahead of me. Yes, I am a stubborn woman. I fight personal growth. I hold on to the deplorable within my heart and soul. But God's message is that there IS hope for me. I just need to keep the image of the altar in my mind.