Mother likes the fact that we – as a family – are know as a gentle educated family. She hates it if people think otherwise.

I think everyone ought to know we are all anything but gentle all of the time with each other. Of course, we are educated: I have a degree in Computer Engineering and my sister displays her Masters Degree in Statistics with the air of a conjurer who has just made the whole world disappear. Mother too is a double graduate and Father is well-versed in printing technologies. Well, Father doesn’t have a degree; it’s a diploma he earned. But then at least he earned that. I know of Fathers who have merely earned rotten abuses because of their alcoholic habits – My Father has none of those habits.

So, we are educated, but we cannot spend an evening without a quarrel. We argue and we do storm out of the venue of the conversation, but come a knock on the door, we morph into the most amiable family you have ever come across. We are all smiles and we will go out of our way to ensure that you think that there’s not a split in the seams formed by us being stitched together.

But come sometime unannounced and invisible to visit us and you will see what we actually are.

Mother dreads this being discovered and so, always ensures we never quarrel outside the house. Father does make a wan face and at times spoils it so bad, we have difficulty figuring out whether he is thinking or is just in a bad mood.

Well, Mother hates it when he makes those faces but she cannot do anything about it. So, she pretends to assume that no one will notice them and sallies forth as if her family were the best in the world.

I have told so many times to get rid of this best-family title that she so assiduously sticks to. But no, she never will.

Mothers! I think they are born to nurture and born to care. But I also think they are born stubborn!

What the hell,
does this pain and fear mean?
You claim there’s a plan,
yet refuse to be seen.
Are you really so gutless,
and afraid to explain,
whilst your spokesmen sit by,
counting the riches they gain.
If you are truly the father,
Is this what you call love,
to sit idly by,
in your castle above?
Whilst down here on earth,
your children are crying.
Hells hounds are here,
and flock is a dying.
What kind of father,
sits back in such silence,
whilst his angry young offspring,
show naught but defiance.

As a father I try,
to raise my son right,
to love all your creatures,
and never to fight.
As a son I must wonder,
is any of this real,
What kind of messed up father,
allows this pain that we feel?
Young children are dying,
and some think they should.
How long before you show them,
that this world can be good?
You don’t seem to hear us,
you don’t show you care.
Whilst millions lay dying,
you ignore their despair.
Still your clergy sit by,
and argue who’s just,
all the while they keep guiltlessly,
caving to lust.

What kind of god,
could claim to have cried,
when killing his son,
saying for us that he died?
Your preachers would have us,
believe bullshit stories,
yet all the time scheming,
whilst praising your glories.
Encouraging violence,
in defence of your name,
yet all these religions,
seem to be teaching the same.
They all claim to be righteous,
they claim to be real,
yet from our existence,
it’s our hope that they steal.
So show yourself coward,
If you truly exist,
come set this all right,
Tell the truth that we missed.

Today, we celebrate Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving- a holiday which we’re told was initially celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Indians to give thanks for bountiful harvests.  Today, Thanksgiving is typically a celebration with friends and family where we stuff ourselves full of turkey and other delicious food till we’re in a food coma.  Damn that tryptophan.  Those still awake watch football or plan where they’re going for the Black Friday deals.

Over the last few days, I’ve been contemplating and reflecting over the things that I am thankful for this year.  Some times sarcasm creeps– what can you be thankful for when your world is turned upside down and you’ve lived through the darkest, loneliest, saddest times you’ve ever been through.  I’ve then given myself a mental pep talk.  After several days of  thinking, I’ve found some light in the darkness.

Basically 2009 has just plain sucked since February.  Life was so good before February- I had a husband whom I loved dearly and we were such a happy family with our new son.  Everybody was healthy.  Life was good.

Then along came February and the stage IV diagnosis, followed by our fight and culminating in our lost battle.

But through it all there are things to be thankful for.

Nathaniel.  I have a wonderful easy going delightful son.  He is a pleasure to be around and his growth and development is nothing short of amazing to witness.

John got to be a father and he was a great one.  Some men never have the opportunity to become fathers.  Of the ones that do, not all of them are great.  John enjoyed fatherhood as much as he physically could through his illness.  Mentally it gave him a reason to fight and a reason to live that stretched beyond self.  John loved his boy so much.  He told me that Nathaniel’s laughter was his most favorite sound.

I had a great marriage and was married to a wonderful man.  I’ve been able to experience true love.  There are lots of people who can’t say that.  I have enough wonderful memories to hopefully last a lifetime.

John’s illness has taught me to stand up for what is right and to fight for those you love and to pick up the pieces and carry on.  The Mary of years past, wouldn’t have stood up to the well known and credentialed doctor and told him that we weren’t done fighting and if he was, then he could be forever referred to by name as “the doctor that gave up on daddy and the doctor who let daddy die.”  The doctors and nurses have other patients and rooms to visit.  The patient has one life.  Sometimes you have to stand up for those you love and insist on the best treatment for your loved one.  In the end maybe the outcome isn’t the most important thing, but rather how you life the life you have and the memories that you leave.  We’ve all been born and we’ll all die… really it’s the parts in the middle that we need to really make count!

John’s death has left me with a hole in my heart- grief, heartache, and loneliness like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.  But, I’m getting through it… not over it, but through it.  Some days are like walking through a nice grassy meadow with the sun warmly shining.  Others are like fighting my way through thick mud and slipping, sliding, falling, and getting up and pushing on.  The sun rises.  The sun sets.  Life goes on.  If I choose to live life or not, it still continues- better to enjoy it while I can.  Nathaniel, the horses, and the cats have kept me going.  They all need me and they all love me.  I’m working or re-building my life.  It won’t ever be the same or the happy home and strong fortress that it was with the three of us, but we’re making it.  It’s not always easy, it’s not always pretty, and it certainly isn’t always clean, but we’re making it…. one day at a time.  Life goes on.  We never know how short or long our life will be.  To me it only makes sense to enjoy it to it’s fullest and be happy as best you can.

For some reason, John’s death has chilled me out more and I don’t usually get upset over the little stuff.  In the end, the little things don’t matter.  It’s the big picture.  I just want to relax and enjoy simple pleasures- hug my kid, ride my horses, take a walk, pet the critters, and just enjoy life.  I’m very fortunate that I can do all of those things without even leaving Leaky Creek!  I love my farm, my house, my horses, my cats, and my son.  I truly feel like there is something else out there beyond our realm.  I do think that John has given me signs.  It’s reassuring and gives me an inner peace that I need.  Attending church has been helpful.  I used to fear dying terribly.  After I held John’s hand as he died, my fear left.  Someday, I’m sure we’ll be together again… as long as he doesn’t hook up with some hot angel in the meantime…

Annapolis Fire Department.  They were absolutely amazing during John’s illness and they (along with Community Fire Company of Rising Sun) made his funeral a fitting tribute to a wonderful man and amazing firefighter.  AFD did so many wonderful things that I know I can’t mention all of them.  They covered John’s shifts, so he received full pay.  They allowed him to retire on disability.  They came to visit him in the hospital and were there for his 2nd round of IL2 treatments at 6 AM & 10 PM.  They transformed our half bath into full bath with a shower that John could use.  Sometimes when you’re sick… the ability to get clean just means so much.  Sadly, John was only able to use his shower a few times, but it was very much appreciated!    AFD built a ramp, so we could get the wheelchair in and out easily.  They mowed our grass and did assorted maintenance jobs.  They went with us to many doctor’s visits so I didn’t have to worry about driving on little sleep or in unpredictable traffic.  They sent meals.  They held a fundraiser in Annapolis.  They participated in Team Smitty for the LiveStrong Challenge.  In, short, they took care of their brother.  John truly worked for a topnotch organization.  He loved working there and they loved him, too.  I miss them.

I’m thankful to the wonderful medical personnel that we encountered… from the friendly, familiar faces on the ambulance, to the caring hospital nurses, to our beloved home health nurses, and every smiling caring face in between.

I am thankful to the friends and family who have supported us and were there for John, Nathaniel, and myself.  During times of crisis, you find out who your true friends are.  Sometimes they are who you think they are… sometimes they’re different people.  I  have been very fortunate that no matter how alone I feel, I am not without friends to support me.  Some friendships have strengthened and I’ve even found new friends.  A simple phone call can make all the difference in the world.  Many people have also helped me out with everything from mowing grass, to checking car brakes, to babysitting, to installing ceiling fans, to watching Nathaniel while I got some equine therapy… and just being there when I needed to talk, needed a hug, or needed a shoulder to cry on.  This Thanksgiving, I’ve received so many invitations- thanks to everybody who thought about my boy and me and knew that we might not have a place to go.

I also have the world’s best babysitter.  I can’t tell you how amazing she has been with my son and how much I enjoy and value her friendship.  We’ve known each other since elementary school, but had lost touch through the years.  Facebook re-united us and I consider her to be one of my best friends, now.  We share conversations, hugs, and tears.  There is nothing like having the piece of mind that my son is being cared for as if her were part of her family.  Nathaniel helped carve his first pumpkin and made his first art project with them.  Her daughter is like a sister to him.  Nathaniel adores her husband and I think it is important for Nathaniel to  have a good male role model in his life.  I can go to work and have no concerns and no worries… to quote the credit card commercials.. “Peace of mind– priceless.”   I know John would approve.

I also hope that I can do some things in memory of John to help fight melanoma and fight cancer.  I don’t want his death to be in vain.  Skin cancer can kill.  We need more melanoma awareness and much, much more research.  I’d love to do a memorial bike ride, since he loved to cycle.

So, even in what has been the worst year in my 34 year life, there are things to be thankful for.  Happy Thanksgiving everybody.  Hug your spouse.  Hug your kid(s).  Pet the critters.  Eat up and watch some football.  And if you get a chance before the food coma sets in take at least a brief moment to remember what you’re thankful for.

Laughter rings true,
through this hospital room.
Smiles so bright,
ease feelings of doom.
Pain racked bodies,
weighed heavily down.
Upon little faces,
a refusal to frown.
Eyes full of fear,
but no sign of regret.
This illness consumes,
how unfair can this get.
With years too few,
to be considered a life,
yet in their young voices,
not a hint of this strife.
Their happiness hides,
most dreads and most fears.
But each night in the dark,
we all shed our tears.
Their smiles are the memories,
etched deep in our mind.
Whilst for sense and reason,
we seek and not find.

I don’t know about you, but I find it very very depressing that I can’t find the Δ symbol on Microsoft Word, so I have to come all the way  to wordpress to copy/paste it over. >_> Same for the degree symbol. Seriously, Word, get better symbol shortcuts!

This lab is giving me so much grief, but after redoing it 4 times (can I cry yet?) I finally managed to get the answer to 70.1 kJ/mol… which is reasonably close to 91.7 kJ/mol. Hurrah!
But I still have to type the whole thing up. T_T Even though I wrote out a good copy by hand. Typing all these numbers and symbols is torture.

That’s just the chem lab. The test is Friday.
And tomorrow, I also have a math test and a quantum physics test…
neither of which I’m prepared for at all.

Meanwhile, Kevin started weaving yarn on a cardboard loom. What?!
Yesterday he broke a thread and started crying because he thought he’d have to start all over again… and that’s when my father finally got annoyed. “Stop crying and be a man!”
I’m still not sure whether he was referring to the weaving or the crying. O_o;;

"El Factor X"

El Factor X: 27 años de edad, profesor Danyl tiene una pasión por el canto y se roba el escenario por completo en una increible primera audicion!

The X Factor: 27-year-old teacher Danyl has a passion for singing and manages to completely own the stage in an incredible first audition!

Connie Talbot singing Ben and winning her Britains Got Talent semi final

Andrew Johnston

The X Factor: It’s difficult to surprise Simon Cowell, but Stacey Soloman manages to do just that… Does she have The X Factor?

Jamie Archer AKA Jamie Afro has never had his chance to break into music, despite it being a lifelong dream. Will he get that chance today?

Joseph McElderry The X Factor: Joe from South Shields immediately got a yes from Cheryl before he started singing! But will he be able to perform well enough to impress the other judges?

Susan Boyle – Memory from Cats – Made Amanda Cry – Piers said brilliant!

You voted him, out of thousands of entrants, your X Factor winner 2007! Watch Leon Jackson perform his brand new single When You Believe!

Lucie Jones,The X Factor 2009: Nervous Lucie takes to the stage, but her choice of song is questioned by Simon. Has she got The X Factor?

The X Factor: 24-year-old Duane returns to The X Factor after failure at last year’s Boot Camp. Has he got what it takes for this year’s competition?

Shaheen Jafargholi Britains Got Talent Wins Semi Final,UNBELIEVABLE 12 YEAR OLD BOY SINGS!!!

Nicky Evans, who recently lost her father, tries her luck at the auditions – and manages to amaze even Simon!

I have blogged in the past about my relationship (or lack of a genuine one) with my father.  In my last post on the subject I was venting spleen over what I felt to be an incredibly insulting, patronising and vicious email from him.  I decided to write to him, telling him exactly what I thought, cathartically expunging from my soul the full list of pain and suffering that had built up since he walked out on us twenty-odd years ago.

Then my younger sister phoned me. She is still in contact with him (the only one of four children). She knew about the email.  She asked me not to write to him, or at least, not to send it. His cancer had returned.

It had been no longer than a couple of months since he’d had the news that his primary (a bowel tumour) had disappeared, and the secondaries on his liver and lungs were so small that the consultant believed them to be dead.

But back it had come. And this time it would mean a different course of chemotherapy. This time he would lose his hair. This time he would also not have fully recovered from the last treatment.

I thought long and hard about how I felt about the news. Was I upset – certainly. Did I want him to suffer? No, definitely not. Did it change my decision to break contact? No.

A few weeks later, on a Saturday morning, I bumped into him. J, I and the twins were back in our hometown, staying with J’s parents. The tiny High Street in the town is only perhaps 400 yards long, and he was walking towards me as I pushed the twins on their morning constitutional to take in the sea air. It was awkward. He was evidently delighted to see the twins, which didn’t sit altogether well with his statement (which is etched in my brain) that not to see the twins ‘wouldn’t be the hardship I obviously thought it would’.

We spoke briefly – I asked about the new treatment that was lined up to start in a month or so’s time, and he asked about the kids. As we parted and he walked away, he call back to ask if I’d send photos of them. Soon.  As I crossed the road away from him I said I’d see.

About a week or so later, he was already asking for pictures. I asked J what she thought of the situation. In her ever-wise way, she told me that I needed to decide for myself, but that any decision that I made, I would have to be comfortable with in light of the fact that he might not live too long. If I decided not to reopen contact (and didn’t ever tell him how I really felt), would I carry guilt/anger/sadness with me for the remaining 30-40 years of my life?

I still couldn’t really understand the turnaround from not wanting any contact with me or the kids, to wanting to see photos of them regularly.  Perhaps it’s the simple fact that he wanted to resolve things but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) apologise. Perhaps he felt he didn’t need to, that the problem was of my making. He is certainly stubborn and unable to see things from anything other than his own viewpoint.

I decided that I would not send the letter. I would send a few pictures. But they wouldn’t be accompanied by any real communication in the email.

His treatment started. I heard from my sister it wasn’t going well.  He was losing weight again, and rapidly.

But he replied to the photos email and was enthusiastic, effusive about the twins.

Another email request came in a few weeks later. I sent some more – again, wonderful praise for how gorgeous they were.

My mother informed me that he wasn’t doing well.  Was this a dying man reaching out?

I decided, after talking to other members of the family, that I had to say something.  I emailed that I couldn’t forget his email, especially the comment about the children. And that there was evidently talking to be done.  But now was not the time – he needed to focus on getting well again. And I included some more pictures.

He emailed back, again, so full of praise for the children, saying how the pictures brightened up his days. This time he included how bad he was feeling, how he’d lost a huge amount of weight, and couldn’t walk far; how he was sleeping for days straight and finding it difficult to get up and down stairs.

When I left J in Cape Town, she sent some pictures back of them all to comfort me in my loneliness.  I knew he would welcome seeing them too.

On Sunday, he phoned. He told me that he was too tired to email – found concentrating at the computer too difficult – but wanted to thank me for them. We spoke for a bit – staying on the same topics: he asked me about the children and I asked him about his treatment and how he was coping.

His voice sounded hollow.

I don’t think he’ll make it through this set of 12 chemotherapies. They’ve already postponed one because of his weight loss and have put him on steroids.

I knew he’d made a big effort to call. I reciprocated. I said that when J is home, it’s likely that she’ll want to head back to our hometown to see her parents and show them how Ella is crawling and all their new teeth. Would he like to see them? Definitely, but he told me he couldn’t get out. Would he like me to bring them round? Yes please. He had evidently changed his mind about me not being welcome in his house. Is this a sign that the nose that he cut off to spite his face is being slowly glued back in place? Perhaps.

I’m going to take the kids round and I hope that he cherishes the time. Unfortunately I think he may only have limited opportunities to spend with them. I’d love to turn the clock back twenty years, have all the conversations that we should have had, had the relationship we should have had. But that would have meant him changing massively, and sadly I don’t think he ever would have done. Perhaps this new reminder of his own mortality may be changing his attitude a little. I’d like to think so.

I have sent him more photos since the call. I may even phone to check that he’s had them.

At this point I don’t think I’ll ever have the real conversation that I need to have with him. Maybe children never really do, and that the scars inside just help us be better parents to our own.

Am I foolish? Am I heartless? Should I just put it all behind me at the risk of carrying it round as emotional baggage for the rest of my life? Should I try to talk it through with a stubborn, selfish, and decidedly sick old man? Am I doing the right thing?

I hope the pain is light for him.

Him: Fae!  They wouldn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s.  What kid doesn’t eat Spaghetti-O’s!

Me: Ours?

Him: Ok, I made a rookie mistake.

Me: (pause)

Him: They asked for brownies this morning before breakfast, and I let them have some.

Me: (pause)

Him: They didn’t eat any eggs I made them for breakfast.

Me: (pause)

Him: Why did you hide the diaper bag?!!  Why aren’t Seanny’s diapers in there?!!

(For the record: The diaper bag has been in the same spot since March when we moved in, on the dryer by the garage door.  I stocked the diaper bag before I left.  He didn’t look in the right place, which has been the same place since Sean was born two and half years ago.  It’s even labeled.)

Him: So I made another mistake.  I noticed Evan was running around and holding himself at the park, so I asked him if he needed to go to the potty.  He said yes, but he wanted to go to Grandma’s and Papi’s to do it (because they were going there any ways after the park).  So I moved quickly, got everyone there quickly.  I pulled Evan out, who ran to the door.  He tripped and fell.  He peed.  He was very upset.

Me: I bet he was.

Him: So then we- Guys!  Stop that!  No hitting!  No splashing!  No!  Stop That!  Igottago.

(The Husband decided to bathe the boys Monday morning, and I happened to call at that time.)

Him: So when are you coming home?

Me: 3:30 today.

Him: Real quick.  What time is Evan’s school?

Me: 12:30.  Leave the house at 12:15 to make sure you have time to strap everyone in and out.

Him: Babe, you’re greatly appreciated.

Me: At least for a week.

16 Nov 2009 A 55-year-old Taiwanese man tricked up to 20 women into having sex with him in an elaborate scam where he posed as both a handsome young man and that man’s ailing father.

Hsu Shian-ming, who was arrested on Saturday, allegedly posted photos of a youthful male model online, claiming to be that person, and attracted numerous calls from women interested in romantic liaisons, the China Post reported.

Hsu would then use the telephone conversations to tell his victims he had a father whose medical condition required constant sex to stay alive, sweet-talking them into doing what was necessary to save him, it said.

The women would then meet up with the “father”, also Hsu, waiting for them at various hotels in Taipei, according to the report.

One of his victims eventually became suspicious after several attempts to see the handsome “son” were unsuccessful, and after she uncovered the truth with the help of private investigators, police were involved, the paper said.

If you know me or  you’ve been more than the most occasional visitor to my blog you’ll know that I take food pretty seriously.  I don’t just love to eat (and yes, I am working on that, thank you very much) but I love to be in the kitchen cooking.  Unlike some people I know I enjoy shopping for food and choosing ingredients whether I’m doing so at an independent/speciality retailer or the nearest supermarket.  When I go to a restaurant I love it if I can see the pass or, better yet, through the pass into the kitchen.  Conversations about food thrill me; I often start mentally planning my evening meal when I’m having my first cup of tea or coffee in the morning.  I have a small notebook where I can record the steps of successful gastronomical experiments and new recipes  (they have to prove more than just edible and sufficiently complex to make it into the book) and I’ll soon be enrolling for my second stint at a nearby culinary school.  Once I even spent the afternoon with a two-man camera crew in my house filming me cook and talk about food as part of an audition process for a TV cooking competition.   More examples of just how food-focussed I am could be added to the list, but I think you get the picture; I’d have a hard time proving anyone who called me food obsessed wrong.

While I’m not denying that I enjoy food for its own sake I don’t spend the time thinking about and preparing food that I do just because I’m some kind of glutton.  At this point, I know some of my readers will be raising their eyebrows with incredulity.  Surely my love of all things cookery is just the outgrowth of a tasty, belt-busting hobby, right?  I don’t think the answer is that simple.

When I was growing up in the United States there was always plenty to eat as the familiar stereotype suggests.  At holidays and other gatherings of friends and families the amounts of food on offer were even more ludicrous.  In this respect my experiences were fairly typical of most middle-class Americans of my age.  What wasn’t so typical was the fact that there were actually some very good cooks preparing that food and that some of the people eating it had rather discerning palettes.  While this meant that I did learn to indulge my propensity to pile more food on my plate than I needed, eat it all and go back for more, I also absorbed some unarticulated sense that nice food and good ingredients were special things to be respected and shared.  Calorie content and the possibility of processed cheese being melted over a dish weren’t, in other words, my only criteria for evaluating the worth of a meal.

Out of all the amateur chefs in my family my father and my maternal grandmother who had the most influence on my own culinary aspirations as wells as my attitudes toward cooking for and feeding myself and others.  In certain respects my grandmother was a very different kind of chef from my father.  She was from West Virginia and some of my earlier memories involve her making what would have been a fantastic roast beef and telling an entirely credulous 5 year old Omphaloskeptic that it was old hound dog.  At about the same time I can remember standing on a stool next her stove while she made pancakes on her aged cast iron skillet, teaching me how to recognise a frequency and pattern of bubbles on the uncooked face of the cakes that meant they were perfectly cooked on the other and ready for flipping.  Another time she mistook an electrical lead she’d left in a slow cooker for a snake that had somehow invaded her soup but that, I think, is a story for a different post.

From my father, most obviously, I inherited a love of grilling and barbecuing.  He also taught me to go ahead and be adventurous in the kitchen, to combine ingredients in unexpected ways because the results could be special.  As a necessary caveat to that he also helped me realise that a certain amount of common sense and basic knowledge of flavour combinations should always be exercised when experimenting with a new recipe.  When I was 7, possibly 8, I fancied myself something of an amateur cocktail maker.  This meant I used to add things to tomato juice.  With a dash of lemon juice, an olive or two, perhaps some Worcester sauce I was, essentially, making myself virgin marys.

One weekend afternoon there was some series of ingredients I had lined up on the counter when my father walked into the kitchen as I happily added a pinch of this and dash of that to my tumbler of tomato juice.  He watched me for a while and when I picked up the Tabasco sauce and shook it once, twice, three times he grabbed my hand before I did it again.  “That’s hot,” he warned.  I was indignant and added more anyway.  He just looked at me.   Then I went to fridge for the crown jewel in my achievement, or so I thought, a nice sweet gherkin.  The jar was empty.  I was distraught. Then I realized there was still plenty of sweet gherkin juice left in the jar.

I had an idea.

Taking the jar back to the counter I began to unscrew the lid.  My father saw what was transpiring and suggested something along the lines of “pickle juice in tomato juice with lots of Tabasco will taste very bad.  It might make you feel sick.”  Looking him square in the eye I added a healthy dash any way.  For good measure I then dribbled just a bit more into my glass.  Then I picked up a spoon, stirred my drink, raised my glass to my lips, took a very large mouthful and swallowed.

At first nothing happened.  Then my throat began to burn.  My tongue and lips burst into flame.  The sheer saltiness of the drink made my stomach hurt.  Then, as the more immediate effects of the hot sauce began to fade the sweet pickle juice made an appearance.  Combined with the all the other flavours in my mouth and the fact that some of my taste-buds had just suffered a death by fire it tasted like nothing other than the flavour left in your mouth after a particularly productive bout of vomiting.  I stood there, eyeing my glass and what was left of my drink in what I hoped was a nonchalant way and heard my father observe “some ingredients don’t go with others even if you like them.  Make sure you clean up.”  He left and I was able to pour the rest of my drink down the sink but not before trying to get my younger sister to imbibe.

Such memories aside I learned something even more important about food from both by grandmother and father.  It’s a lesson that others helped teach me and that has been reinforced many times over.  At it’s best food is about more than good flavours and nice ingredients.  The best meals I’ve ever had have all involved great dishes, but those same dishes haven’t been the stars of the show.  Instead they were a vital accompaniment to the main attraction like the orchestra at an opera, or the soundtrack to a film.

As humans we all have to eat.  There’s no getting around it.  What isn’t always the case is that the necessary occasion of eating becomes  an opportunity for social interaction and sharing.  Think about this the next time you walk past a McDonald’s or a Burger King and see people seated on the stools facing out the window to the the street chewing forlornly on their meal deals and I think you’ll get an idea of what I mean.  When we eat we are engaged in an unavoidable act that we all have to practice from time to time, an act that can be accomplished in utilitarian isolation or, if we’re lucky, in the company of friends or family providing a sense of respite and refuge.

I’ve thought about this a good deal and I’m not sure that I can explain why I believe that in the right circumstances a good meal can provide the space for a kind of conversation and mutual recognition that doesn’t happen say, over a few drinks, or a game of bridge.  It’s something I can sense more than something I can see or know.  Partly I think it has to do with pace.   To a greater degree, I think that it stems from the fact that we’re engaging in a basic, fundamental action that neither we, nor the other animals on our planet, can avoid.  When we eat some ancient part of us recognises that we are vulnerable, that we are lucky to have food in front of us.  Though it isn’t something that occurs to us at a conscious level, when we have good food, when we have enough of it and when we have someone or some group of people we care about to share it with, that same part of us fully relaxes.  It tells us that life is good, that we are lucky and that we should make the most of the meal and bonds we share in the time we have to share them.

I think that’s why I like to have good meals with the people I care about whether at home or out.  I’ve found that if I’m cooking for myself alone I have a hard time getting motivated to do much more than make a sandwich or bake a potato with some carrots.  I also think that it’s part of the reason I like to cook so much.  Sure the alchemy of turning a pile of unwashed, unprepared ingredients into an attractive meal is great.  At the same time, cooking also gives me the opportunity to spend just a little bit more time in that realm of subconscious reflection I’ve posited.  If I’m really lucky I might be able to help the people I’m feeding join me there when we all sit down together at the table.

One of the most encouraging books that I have read on marriage and relationships is by the best-selling author Gary Smalley, who has  sold millions of videos on how to strengthen our vital relationships.  John Gray, the well-known author of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, comments: “If you want a lasting love relationship, I highly recommend Gary Smalley’s guide to forever love”.

One of the keys to his memorable books is that Gary teaches you how to fall in love with life all over again.  Everything he writes has to do with the age-old struggle between the life-giving principle of honour and the life-draining emotion of destructive anger.  The average person, says Smalley, has little or no idea how damaging that forgotten or ignored anger can be.  Worse yet, most people don’t even know how much destructive anger they have buried inside, much like unexploded landmines left in the middle eastern sands.  Once buried, our anger does its worst damage, wreaking havoc on our physical and emotional well-being.  Facing our anger is indispensable to Making Love Last Forever.

Anger, says Smalley, is a secondary emotion, not a primary feeling.  It arises out of fear, frustration, hurt, or some combination of these three.  Anger is actually a coping strategy to attempt to banish fear from our lives.  Sometimes our parents have non-verbally taught us that perfect anger casts out all fear, when the truth is that only perfect love casts out all fear.

Smalley comments that anger can be thought of as a sticky, bad-smelling dangerous substance that can be compressed and stuffed into something like a spray can.  Angry people tend to go around spraying their anger on other people.  The spray is felt by others as meanness, insensitivity, and general offensiveness.  Most angry people have no idea that their angry spray stings others like hydrochloric acid.  Unresolved anger is the No. 1 enemy of Making Love Last Forever.

Some of us as men pride ourselves that we are not as other husbands, who physically beat up their wives in drunken rages.  Yet even if our anger never turns violent or illegal, unresolved anger can still prove destructive.  All of us want to feel connected in our primary relationships.  But one of the most common results of deep anger is relational distance, an unwillingness and inability to let others get close.  It is as if we are living inside a relational box of thick plate glass.  Yet we keep wondering as men why our wives won’t become more intimate.

Unresolved anger, says Smalley, is not only destructive to our families.  It is also destructive to our personal health. Many of the backaches, neckaches, and headaches that send us complaining to our GPs are actually the outworking of buried anger.  Anger studies were done on medical doctors and lawyers over a 25 year period.  By the age of fifty, only 4 percent of the low-ranked easy-going lawyers and 2 percent of the doctors had died.  Lawyers who had ranked high on anger had a 20 percent mortality rate;  doctors 14 percent.  Studies are also showing that angry people are more susceptible to heart attacks – the leading cause of death in North America.  Hostile anger can boost heart rates, raise blood pressure and lead to increased clogging of the arteries.  What’s worse, says Smalley, is that the risk of heart attack seems to be greatly increased during the two hours following a bout with anger.

Why do we get angry anyways?  Smalley suggests that we get angry because either someone is taking something away from us that we don’t want to lose, or else we’re being denied something we want to gain.  By facing and grieving our losses, we break the power of anger to make our lives miserable.

Part of healthy grieving is the willingness to lay aside bitterness, the willingness to say like Jesus: “Father, forgive them for they don’t know what they are doing.”  Another key to grieving, says Smalley, is to search for “hidden pearls” in any offense committed against you.  The idea here is that some good can come out of any bad situation – if you’ll just look for it.  That’s why the Good Book says that all things work for the good for those who love the Lord.  Grieving our losses is an irreplaceable key in Making Love Last Forever.

I recently watched a most disturbing and enlightening movie entitled “The Field”.  It was about an Irish farmer who dedicated his life to providing for his family’s future.  But again and again his anger rose up to destroy everything and everyone that he loved.  Given my Irish heritage,  it was a strong warning to me that I had to face the anger in my life, or it would one day destroy me.

Unresolved anger can cripple us in so many ways.  Anger keeps us distant from the very people we want to care for.  In contrast, love builds bridges of trust and forgiveness.  Sometimes anger even keeps us distant from God himself.  Smalley has found that the greater the unresolved anger, the more difficulty that person has in developing a meaningful spiritual life.  Studies after studies are confirming that a healthy spiritual life in a marriage reduces divorce rates, increases marital satisfaction, and lowers the level of relational conflict.

My prayer for those reading this article is that each of us may discover the keys to Making Love Last Forever.

The Reverend Ed Hird

Rector, St. Simon’s Church, North Vancouver

Anglican Coalition in Canada

http://www3.telus.net/st_simons

-previously published in the Deep Cove Crier

-author of the award-winning book Battle for the Soul of Canada

http://www.battleforthesoulofcanada.blogspot.com

If I was to ask “Can you come and pray with me?” Who would think “Duck and Cover!” Praying out loud can be uncomfortable, difficult or downright scary. There’s many reasons why people are uncomfortable praying.

Some people find the spotlight that others are listening too intense. Others find that they don’t know what to pray about and have to mumble and jumble their way through a prayer trying to find the words to express what they want to pray about. Praying outloud could be uncomfortable because there’s an expectation that your prayer should be full of theological words and phrases.

I was reminded this week that when we pray we actually are having a conversation with God, our father. Rather than call it prayer we should really call it chatting with dad. “Hey do you want to have a chat with my dad?” This sounds a bit less scary and daunting doesn’t it? Instead of needing to use big words and complicated sentence we  just need to talk to our dad. Sometimes we can forget that God is our father, a perfect father. When my son is talking and learning new words and trying to tell me things I listen to every word, its the same with God isn’t it? We don’t need big words and theological ideas, God our father is pleased just with our simple ideas and everyday conversation with him. Next time your praying or asked to pray out loud just think, you heavenly father is listening and its time to talk to dad, your heavenly dad!

Foreword to Global Warming is a Myth

THE LUNATIC OF NARANATH

 There is a book titled ‘THE LEGENDS OF KERALA’. In one story a wandering Brahmin called Vararuchi takes a tribal woman with him and she bore twelve children by him. As soon as a child is born, she is told to leave it by the wayside and they proceed on. To the question: how it will survive, the Brahmin would say: if it has a mouth ,it would be fed; do not look back.   

 The first baby was brought up by a Namboodiri family (Mezhathol Agnihotry-the family is still there) and he became a Namboodiri. Another was a famous carpenter – Perunthachan. Among the rest was the lunatic of Naranath who captivated me as a singular personality.

 Like his father, he was a wanderer. At night he would rest in a smashan, where dead bodies are burnt. Not to waste the fire, he cooked rice there. In a cool night, enjoying the warmth of the fire, he slept soundly after a day of continuous wandering.

 That night, Bhadrakali, during her nocturnal trip, was surprised to find a human being and was naturally curious. In spite of her fierce shouts, she failed to rouse the stranger. Somehow he woke up and shouted back, Who is this mad woman? The Goddess was immensely pleased with the sheer daring of the man and wanted to bestow a boon; but the man refused, saying he would accept no favours either from man or God. For both it became a prestige issue. At last, the man relented. He said: I have elephant-foot on my left side; you may transfer it to my right side!

 It was his pastime to roll a stone up the hill and throw it down. Watching it tumble down, he claps his hands and laughs. The hill, supposed to be his favourite haunt, is near Shoranur. On the first day of the Malayalam month of Thulam, thousands of pilgrims go up the hill. `I had been there a couple of times. It rains and the path is dangerously slippery. Yet, I enjoyed it.

 I am mad. How else can I dare to write such fantastic nonsense? A lunatic is free of all inhibitions. He sees Nature as God made it. He does not worry about what is written in the text book. The greatest book is Nature. READ IT CAREFULLY without missing the punctuation. Accurate observation and logical thinking are the two pillars of knowledge. Science is nothing but the search for TRUTH.

 I welcome criticism-merciless and incisive analysis.

Note: Shoranur is in Palghat (Palakkad) dist., Kerala State

November 25, 2009
Dear Attorney General Brown,
I was sexually molested by my father Reginald “Reggie” Edward Fennell Jr. between the ages six through ten years old. As of today I am only a statistic, 1 in every 4 women have been raped or sexually molested before the age 18. This is a pandemic in the United States that has raged out of control.

After futile attempts contacting the Orange County Police Department in 2007, followed by my attached letter to Orange County District Attorney Tony Rackauckus, Sandra Hutchens of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, and District Attorney Chief Investigator Michael Major, I have received zero replies for help by those appointed to protect and uphold the law.

Mr. Brown your office states its mission is to “protect and serve the victims of abuse.” Attorney General Brown I am in dire need of your help. Please hear and guide me. My father, Reginald “Reggie” Edward Fennell Jr. should be prosecuted and the voices of the millions sexually abused and molested need to know their voices will not be ignored.

There’s a stage in a man’s life where he steps up the pedestal, plunges his hand into a Balrog’s body and rips out its still beating heart. As he stands there triumphantly with Balrog heart held aloft his head, he wishes for the world to see his heroic deed and demands the accolades he so deserves.

His transition from boy to man is now complete.

If that, ladies and gentlemen, isn’t an apt description of my feelings on discovering I’m about to become a father, I have three eyes and a diaper-wearing married man who still lives with his mother.

The second in my series on becoming a father has been published on theAsianParent.

Personally, I really love the reference to the Balrog. It doesn’t matter what your background is – everybody loves medieval fantasy. I’m currently clocking up hours on the epic Dragon Age: Origins (much to Michele’s chagrin) and perhaps that’s where my inspiration came from.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how a Balrog looks. Just the work Balrog itself screams fierce and scary. And it starts with B – perhaps the alphabet’s fiercest letter. Rawr!

Anyway, check out the new article. Leave a comment!

Because it was ingrained into my mind, heart and soul to not be gay, I was terrified of what would happen to me when and if it happened.  I spent many years trying to push it away, but would find myself finding outlets for my sex drive.  I was yearning for some kind of lovin’ no matter how it came.

At an early age I started to cyber.  I would go online and I would find chat rooms and would video with men.  I would create a fantasy for them and would give them what they want.  You would ask then how a young girl would know so much of what happens during a sexual act… Well the first time I watched pornography was when I was 10 or 11. I can’t truly remember the age.  I remember how it was imprinted to the back of my mind forever.  It was two women having sex with each other.

Once again people will say “Nope that’s why she likes women!” and once again I would have to have you look down and see that there is no ground below you and you would fall off the cliff!

This first image of pornography was very VERY disturbing to me.  I didn’t understand why two women were having sex with each other.  Also two women that were sisters.  It wasn’t possible in my mind.  First men and women only have sex and second why would two people that are related have sex with one another?  I couldn’t understand it!  But that was my first taste.  Then I started to search out pornography online.  Anywhere I would find it I would eat it up!

I would search it out more and more each day!  This is how I was able to give a person great fantasy of what they wanted, of what they needed for the time being.  I loved being able to get men so aroused!  It was fun to me and I would get a good time out of it.  Now the whole time this would happen my parents never said a thing to me about what was wrong or right when it came to sex.  My parents also didn’t stop what my sisters and I looked up or watched online.  Since they didn’t understand the English language well nothing made sense to them.  So I was able to get online late at night and do whatever I wanted without having anyone bother me.

I had such a high imagination.  Even after I would get off-line I would still imagine of having sex with a person.  I remember before falling asleep I would fantasize about being with people and having sex with them.  Now to make it alright with having sex with women in my fantasies I would become a man in them.  That’s how I would make my illusions ok.  I believed it was still ok to do so because I wasn’t falling into sin if I was a man having sex with women.

I enjoyed my fantasies.  I loved creating these stories when I was loved.  I loved being loved.  It felt so nice to have these women love me.  But on the exterior I pretended to like boys.  I even pretended to like a boy in my church when I was younger, only because all the other girls liked him too.  But to this day I can’t remember having any kind of butterflies in my stomach like I had for women.

Well lovies that’s one more for the books!  Come back again and I will give you some more!

XOXO

~RoMa

Four Catholic men and One Catholic woman were having coffee.

The first man tells his friends,

“My son is a priest, when he walks into a room, everyone calls him ‘Father’.”

The second man chirps,

“My son is a Bishop. When he walks into a room people call him ‘Your Grace’.”

The third man says,

“My son is a Cardinal. When he enters a room everyone says ‘Your Eminence’.”

The fourth man then says,

“My son is the Pope. When he walks into a room people call him ‘Your Holiness’.”

Since the lone Catholic woman was sipping her coffee in silence,

the four men give her a subtle, “Well….?”
She proudly replies,

“I have a daughter, slim, tall, 38D breasts, 24″ stomach and 34″ hips.

When she walks into a room, people say, “My God.”

I am not a theologian and I make mistakes from time to time.

Some times us Catholics are afraid of doing the right thing. We try to justify doing the wrong actions by saying things like, well this might have a better out come in the end. But the ends don’t justify the means. Let us all stand boldly for our Faith and do what’s right at all times. In good times and in bad.

“Because you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, ‘Abba, Father.’”  — Galatians 4:6

If we were to name the things we are thankful for, among friends and our health, many of us would include family on the list.  Our families certainly give us reason to be thankful  (though it might not feel like it at times).  They are such an important part of our lives.

The warmth and support we draw from our earthly family gives us just a glimpse of the delight of being part of a spiritual family.  By receiving the free gift of salvation given to us by Jesus, we become adopted sons and daughters of God.  We get to call God our father and Jesus our brother.  Our Heavenly Father has our back.  He is there to mentor us, to give guidance when we ask for it, and discipline us when we need it.  He delights in us as a father delights in his sons and daughters.  His power over sin is our inheritance. And deep in our souls, we can finally say we “belong.”  We are accepted and loved, part of something more amazing than we can imagine.  We are family.

This Thanksgiving, give thanks for your family — in more ways than one.

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Dawn R. Smith Photography