Mrs Angela Goodborn, Manjula’s gynaecologist and pre-natal specialist at New Cross Hospital in Wolverhampton, had been listening to us for the past hour. And to me for the past 10 minutes.

Looking at our harried faces, she came around the desk and put an arm around each one of us and said, “this is normal Jim, Manjula. Nuclear families are prone to an increase in the number of squabbles they get into during a pregnancy, despite their obvious love for each other; blame it on the hormones”.

After a pause, she continued, “And the phenonmenon that you are referring to Jim, of you continuing to put on weight while Manjula is pregnant, is something we commonly refer to as ’sympathetic pregnancy’, where the caring husband eats to give his wife company, and in the process continues to gain weight as well. However, let me warn you Jim that you need to be careful. Otherwise, at the end of term, Manjula will deliver and almost immediately lose a significant part of the weight that she has put on. You on the other hand, will not. The reason why I am sharing this with you, is that I see a number of cases where this leads to even more misunderstandings and differences later on.”

After a while, we stood up, bade our good byes and walked out. On our way home, as advised by Dr Goodburn, we stopped by at West Park. Dr Goodburn had said, “whenever possible, take a stroll in the park. It will relax you”. And so, we were here. We were good patients, Manjula and I. Of course we had had no option but to.

Early on in the pregnancy both of us had realised that while we had seen many babies being born and growing up around us when we were young, we really knew nothing about pregnancy and childbirth. Even more alarming to us was the fact that there was no mother, aunt, sister or family midwife to turn to with our questions or even for emotional support. All these roles and more had to be taken up by the good Dr Goodburn as Manjula passed through – as we were later told - a rather difficult pregnancy.

Where she couldn’t help however was in helping us resolve an ongoing debate and subject of deliberation through most of the 10-months that we waited for our first born to appear. Out identity. And what would be his / hers.

“I want a boy, not a girl”, said Manjula vehemently. “Girls, my mother always would share, are like treasures that families nurture and hold in their custody for someone else to enjoy. A son, on the other hand, never goes away. He stays yours forever.”

“That doesn’t really make sense, Manjula. Besides, I am really not interested in having a son who will carry forward the family name. Look at yourself, haven’t you chosen to continue to carry your maiden name even after you have gotten married? Have I ever complained about that? Besides, I have always dreamt of having a little girl who I could call my own. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“I haven’t chosen to keep  my maiden name, it’s just that your family has decided to change the spelling of Ghose to Ghosh, which linguistically and culturally is incorrect. While the former is a Kulin Kayatha, the second is used by people who are engaged in the sweat-meat selling business. I don’t see why I should embrace something that you are not, and which I definitely will not be!”, Manjula affirmed.

However, it ran somewhat deeper than that. The reasons given by her not to have a girl were closer to her reality and understanding of the truth than to anything else. Manjula silently but resolutely held on to her past. Her reality. Her maiden name. And the fact that, 19 Baithukhanna 2nd lane, now a far off place, in a far off land, continued to be her home in every discussion we had, and would have in the future.

For now, what followed, was two parallel sets of purchases for almost everything we considered necessary as we prepared for the new member of our family: bedspreads, pillows, clothes, diapers, dolls, rattles, even a pram. Everything I would buy was pink. Everything she would buy was blue. We even had a list of 20 alternative name between us, 10 of either gender. Everthing I would put up over the weekend in what would become our child’s room would by Friday, change completely in colour scheme and decor. In this one instance, neither of us heeded the advice given to us by Dr Goodburn, “Don’t be in a rush. You should wait for the child to come, and then decide on these things. You should thank God that all the tests have so far shown that the child is perfectly normal”.

That wasn’t the only thing that came between us. It was toward the end of the eighth month, when Manjula and I were everyday counting moments, hours and days toward holding our newborn in our arms that she said, “Soumya” – the fact that the rest of the world called me Jim, didn’t really matter to her – “will our child really know that he is an Indian? Will he learn to speak Bengali like we do or will he grow up to be someone who will never know that he is an Indian? Someone who has never been to India, never known our culture, our religion, our festivals, our relationships, out ties…will we never go home?”

“She, Manjula, she not he”, I said referrring to our longstanding debate. “Our daughter will be British. She will carry a British passport, receive the finest English education and grow up to study at Oxford or Cambridge. Our daughter will be a lady”, I beamed.

“But what about my other questions, Soumya? What about India?”, she said, with her eyes filling up with tears as she looked up and searched my face for an answer.

I didn’t really have a convincing answer then, and I don’t think I have one now, after Manjula has gone. The question of our roots, of our identity as people, as members of a family and as Indians continued to lie unanswered between us for many, many years. And when we did think we found the answer, we realised that it was as far from the truth as when we started on our quest. But for more of that later.

For the moment, I gently wrapped my arms around them and softly carressing her hair, kissed her tears away. “Shush, or our baby will be sad. Remember what Dr Goodburn says, ‘She can now feel your hunger, taste your happiness and wallow in your pain and sadness’. Now, we don’t want our daughter to be unhappy do we? We will worry about such things as her identity later. There’s plenty of time. Besides, her first and foremost identity will always be that she is our daughter. Manjula and Soumybrata Ghosh’s daughter. Everything else is secondary.”

Electa Rome Parks discusses her roles as mother and writer, what she hopes to leave her children, and her upcoming and fifth novel, “Diary of a Stalker“.

Electa is the author of The Ties that Bind, Loose Ends, Almost Doesn’t Count, and Ladies Night Out.

She is also a contributor to, These Are My Confessions.

So tune in.

As I mentioned in the previous post, my second flight to North Carolina was full of babies. I was lucky enough (no sarcasm…seriously…I love babies) to be seated across the aisle from this little doll.

Since I had three seats to myself and her parents were crammed with their bags, baby, baby toys, diaper bags, etc., into two seats, I offered to trade.  While taking pictures of the landscapes, the mother commented that I should take some pictures of their baby because they were so busy they never took any.

I think she was joking, but I told her that I could do that and just email her the pictures.

These were a couple of the pictures.  Isn’t she precious? Just look at those eyes…

She didn’t cry once the entire flight, either.

Not that I would have noticed after the first fifteen minutes, being in the drug-induced sleep that I was.  I hate flying.

This one is my favorite, though.

Babies just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don’t they?

In May 2009, ZIM had referred to the ‘mute’ response of Indian Media on one of history’s biggest crimes.

Recent cacophony pertaining to Ruchika Girotra’s persecution by a SPS Rathore made ZIM revisit what remains a criminal behavior by Indian Government Authorities and media.

Brother Paul Alan was someone who escaped justice in Western Australia for fraud and operates in India as a Catholic Christian Missionary and a respected Doctor.  He led Mother Teresa’s “Missionaries of Charity’ Mass. Among other things he set up his own Missionary enterprise “New Hope”, solicited funds through advertorials.

Some of Brother Alan’s actions pertain to practicing medicine and worse doing surgeries on gullible poor, all without having a medical license.

But this was nothing compared to what you will read now. For three full decades, mind you, not just a day or a week or a month, Brother Paul Alan sexually abused and assaulted hundreds of teenage boys across eastern India in Orissa and Andhra Pradesh.

One boy, 14 year old Anil Kumar, same age as Ruchika, who was deaf and mute but not dumb and who lived with Brother Paul Alan committed suicide (We do not know if it was a murder).

Deaf, Mute boy Anil Kumar who ended up dead with Pedophile Brother Paul:

It is not as if the news is not in the public domain. Sally Sara, ABC’s Indian Correspondent did outstanding investigative journalism to dig out the details on the outlaw.

As Sally Sara captures, Brother Paul Alan has been released on bail multiple times, doing more evil every time and Prosecution non existent.

Cover up in India has been massive. Government, Media, So called Social Rights Activists all went on “Omerta” on this one.

There are many in the Government who need to provide answers on this one:

Navin Patnaik Chief Minister of Orissa

P Chidambaram, Home Minister, India

Rosaiah, Chief Minister, Andhra Pradesh

Local and State Administration in Brother Paul Alan’s places of operation – Titlagarh and Pure in Orissa and Vishakapatnam in Andhra Pradesh need to provide answers. In fact Pradesh Kumar Maharana, Mayor of Titilagarh said on camera that he knew about the ugly happenings and yet preferred not to act.

Some Questions

Indian Media: Why despite knowing the details, they have preferred to be “deaf and mute”.

Why have civil rights organisations both local and national not acted on this case which is far more gruesome in magnitude than  SPS Rathore’s behavior?

Brother Paul Alan was from Australia and operated for a long time in Orissa with Leprosy Missions. Was he connected to Graham Staines?

What was the connection of organizations like World Vision? There are important stories that directly impact well being of India.  Where are the intrepid reporters that can provide us answers?

Will the Government face the problem or run away from it, and worse try and influence/persecute Sally Sara and work with ABC to have the information removed from public domain?

What are Governance mechanisms to monitor Christian missions and christian funding on evangelizing initiatives which have skyrocketed?

Will civil rights organization file questions to administration under RTI? And will Government come clean?

Answers to the above questions will outline how effective is Indian Democracy.

Motherhood has a very humanizing effect.  Everything gets reduced to essentials. ~ Meryl Streep

© Chasiti Moore

Have the kids experienced ‘let-down’ yet?  Just 364 days till CHRISTMAS again! 

Mary CHRISTmas!

Quote or Joke of the Day:

Jesus is the man God intended all humans to be. (D.L. Dykes)

http://www.oneliners-and-proverbs.com/

Today’s Meditation:

When eight days were completed for his circumcision, he was named Jesus, the name given him by the angel before he was conceived in the womb.  When the days were completed for their purification according to the law of Moses, they took him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord, just as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every male that opens the womb shall be consecrated to the Lord,”  and to offer the sacrifice of “a pair of turtle-doves or two young pigeons,” in accordance with the dictate in the law of the Lord.  (NAB Lk 2:21-24)

Just as John [the Baptist] before him had been incorporated into the people of Israel through his circumcision, Jesus becomes a member of Gods chosen people through his circumcision.   This is the time that a Jewish baby receives his name:  Jesus’ name means “God Saves.”   The presentation of Jesus in the temple shows that Joseph and Mary were devout Jews, and faithful followers of the law of Moses.  In this respect, they are described in a fashion similar to the parents of John, and Simeon, and Anna. 

According to the Mosaic law ( found in Lev 12:2-8), any woman who gives birth to a boy is unable to touch anything sacred, or to enter the temple area by reason of her legal impurity, for forty days.  At the end of this period she is required to offer a year-old lamb as a burnt offering, and a turtle-dove or young pigeon as an expiation of sin.  The woman who could not afford a lamb offered instead two turtle-doves or two young pigeons, as Mary does here.  This shows that Mary and Joseph were not well-off, and of the lowly caste of the population. 

They took Jesus to Jerusalem (which means ‘city of peace’) to present him to God.  As the firstborn son, Jesus was consecrated to God, as the law required (found in Exodus 13:2, 12).  The law further stipulates (in Numbers 3:47-48) that the firstborn son should be redeemed by the parents through a payment of five shekels.  Jesus is presented to God in Jerusalem as a baby; paying for the priviledge of being consecrated to the service of God.  Jesus is again presented in Jerusalem thirty plus years later, as Christ and a servant of God, to pay with His life for the priviledge of servicing God, and redeeming His people.  

Pax et Bonum

Dan Halley, SFO

*****

Secular Franciscan Order (SFO) Rule #26:

As a concrete sign of communion and co- responsibility, the councils on various levels, in keeping with the constitutions, shall ask for suitable and well prepared religious for spiritual assistance.  They should make this request to the superiors of the four religious Franciscan families, to whom the Secular Fraternity has been united for centuries.  To promote fidelity to the charism as well as observance of the rule and to receive greater support in the life of the fraternity, the minister or president, with the consent of the council, should take care to ask for a regular pastoral visit by the competent religious superiors as well as for a fraternal visit from those of the higher fraternities, according to the norm of the constitutions. 

Author: Billie Chainey
Source: ezinearticles.com

The clandestine dissection address that was accustomed to Katherine Jackson showed that Michael died of a biologic overdose. It was added than one medication that acquired the affection failure. The ancestors is planning acknowledged activity adjoin added than one doctor. They’re getting actual quiet about aggregate because they wish to delay for the official dissection address afore demography action. The aftereffect of aggregate that they do is traveling to betrayal a lot about abounding added celebrities who are getting accustomed drugs by the aforementioned doctors. Because of their accomplishments abounding celebrities are in fact traveling to escape Michael Jackson’s abortive demise.

Mrs. Jackson is devastated by this account and as I accept gotten afore she cries every day. Her affiliation with Michael was abutting and she knew he had problems, but did not apprehend the abounding admeasurement of his biologic acceptance and those that were accouterment it for him. She anticipation the humans about him were absolutely demography acceptable affliction of him. Since she’s had the accouchement she has abstruse a lot added about how authoritative the humans were about him. The accouchement did not like the humans who took affliction of them and their father. They are so abundant happier with Mrs. Jackson now that they’re abroad from the ascendancy freaks.

Michael’s spirit stays abutting to his mother and children. He loves them and is accomplishing his best to let them apperceive that he is blessed and misses them. The affliction that is acquainted by the ancestors keeps them from activity how generally his spirit is about them.

His mother is now activity a affiliation to Michael because she realizes she needs to apprehend from him and she wants to apperceive what he would like for her to do. This is why he larboard his, “Michael Jackson“, accouchement with her. She’s accomplishing a absurd job of demography affliction, “Michael Jackson“, of them. Michael misses his children, but is with them in spirit every day. His mother is continuing up to Jermaine who keeps insisting that he should be active at Neverland. His mother knows that he capital to be active area there were added celebrities and he did not wish a big memorial. He was afflicted throughout his activity that’s why he wrote the song, “Leave Me Alone,” and he knows that a canonizing would just could cause added problems for my family. At this point as far as he is anxious he has gotten rid of his concrete physique and it’s absolutely not important anymore.

World renowned Native American Psychic Cherokee Billie has been working as a Clairvoyant advisor for over 25 years. She receives messages that will change your life! She helps her clients to connect with their Soul’s Path, bringing peace and joy into their daily lives. Fast – Straightforward Answers!

Cherokee Billie http://www.cherokeebillie.com

“Can you hear me,
am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him,
can you make him feel alright?
If you hear me,
let me take his place somehow.
See he’s not just anyone,
He’s my son…”

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder about her journey between the manger and the cross. This song “He’s my son,” (in this link the song is set to scenes from The Passion…a couple of the scenes depicted are difficult to watch) by Mark Schultz, found me tonight and made me wonder if, just as she knew so much about his divine appointing, and his purpose…and “pondered them in her heart”…did she know it all…

This poem poured out as I listened to Mark’s song…

Where am I Father
I have lost my
bearings.

I don’t know why
You
would send us
here…
here, of all places
far from
all that
feels like
home
so far from all that
speaks to me of
comfort and joy…except You
and Your promise
that he is Your beloved
son
too…

I have traveled
long and
I am tired…
this child of Yours
is ready
to begin his
reign on earth and
we are
nowhere near
a temple
or a canopy.

what kind of
King
holds court
in a
stable with
only
sheep and
goats,
shepherds and doves
for
subjects…

what kind of prince of
peace
hears only
the sound of
a cow’s lowing
to mark
his entrance
into
the kingdom
he will
govern

what kind of
Counselor
cannot yet speak a
word…
will his first language
be
the
language of
beasts and
doves,
stars and straw?

What has this
world
taught him so far?
that he
is not welcome
in the inn…
that his parents are
strangers in a
strange land…
that
he will
never know a
place to call his own?

Where are
my parents,
his grandparents…
on a night like this
when
their grandson
comes
to save a
waiting world

Will anyone
ever wonder
where
they were
or
will the story
be told
as if I was
not only a virgin
but an
orphan….

The cost of
this journey
has been great and it
is not over yet.

But tonight I
will promise my son
that he will never
know
a night this dark and
full of pain
without
his mother’s
love…
without my love…
ever
even when he thinks
he doesn’t need me
near

Didn’t
they wonder
if the same angel
who prepared me for
his arrival
would have also
prepared me for
greater agony…
his departure…

I will be ready
I will be there
he will not
be alone…he is my son…
and Yours…
we will be there.

staying in the manger with them tonight…with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

christmas break, huh? everything just decides to peel apart all at once. apparently i no longer live in my house, although all my stuff is still there…but i am not. HE can’t decide if he want’s good or bad days, so we’re constantly stuck in between. my bestfriend is too enthralled in being home for the break to fully discuss my emotions, feelings, and current situations. can’t blame him. i am being bombarded with questions by the family who all of a sudden cares. it just seems like EVERYTHING is getting in my way.

and everybody wonders why i am so angry, or “crazy” is the word they use nowadays.

it is because my parents ask “how are you getting home?” instead of “how did you pay for school this semester?” or “how are you eating up in DC?”

i am pissed because i treat HIM like a king and he treats me like a servant.

i am frustrated because i live with three girls whose parents pay their bills, who will never understand the true meaning of grinding.

and i feel like i have been doing that my entire life. g r i n d i n g .

f i g h t i n g .

s c r e a m i n g .

y e l l i n g .

s t r u g g l i n g to have my own.

whether it be my own phone. or my own room. or my own clothes. or my own personality. try telling an angry, little black girl who believed that the world constantly effed her over that nobody owes her shit.

just try.

because i grew up where nobody was going to give you something you didn’t deserve, and if they were, it wasn’t as soon as you wanted it to be. so i did it on my own. and fought anybody who tried to stop me. actually just fought them for no reason.

fought all the rich, white kids in kindergarten who thought it was funny to play duck,duck,goose every day at recess. and pick the only black girl every time.

fought the little black boy in third grade who called my best friend fat.

fought the trailer-trash white girl in the sixth grade on the bus who said “yo mama…”. she never really got a chance to finish the insult.

fought every girl in middle school who had something to say about the fact that all i wanted to wear was basketball shorts.

fought that ratchet puerto rican girl in high school…for…ummm…because she….ummm. i honestly don’t remember.

fought my mother too many times to count because i couldn’t stomach her telling me “no”.

ditto for my father.

fought summer09 who wanted to make me think that i was stuck with no way out.

fought howard university financial aid who told me there would be no way i would be enrolled fall09. oh, really?

fought to get that $825 monthly rent that had to come out of my pocket.

fought the health care system and this tumor that is telling me that my life will never be the same.

and now i fight back tears when i think about it.

i am SOOO tired of fighting. SOOO tired of struggling. i am tired of being unappreciated and overworked.

i grew up thinking that there was nothing i couldn’t scrap my way out of. no argument i couldn’t win. no arguer i couldn’t talk over. but that has gotten old. after years and years of fighting…i am tired of swinging. you would think something, ANYTHING would have let up by now. i just thought SOMETHING would be easy.

thought i could come home to a nice house and NOT fight with my bipolar mother. maybe i could spend time in the city with HIM without everything falling apart. maybe go visit my bestfriend without feeling obligated to fall in love with him. maybe see my father and stepmother without my stomach churning at the thought of  the past. maybe. just maybe.

because i am tired of swinging. blow by blow, i am losing energy. and i am sure that every time i swing, i am hurting myself more than anyone else.

and i never disagreed.

i have hated christmas ever since i could remember celebrating it. haven’t figured out why yet.

maybe it was the fact that i go to church now and give an EXTRA offering to the “Adopt A Family” fund, because there were a COUPLE of christmases when MY family was adopted. when they asked us to fill out papers with questions like:

“what do you like to do in your spare time?” i’d put “write” if i needed new stationary. or “listen to music/dance/play basketball”. something simple.

“what is your favorite color?” i’d put “blue” to avoid the generic “all girls like pink” situation.

or “if you could have ONE thing, what would it be?” THIS question is always the most important. this is where my brother would put a gameboy color and my sister would put a new Ken doll for her Barbie.

this is where i asked for journals. i wanted big, pretty journals and little, smooth pens to record my feelings every time the “Adopt A Family” people came in and took pictures of us opening presents to post in somebody’s front lobby somewhere. because the look on my mother’s face as she opened HER presents was always less than holiday-spirited.

that probably had something to do with it too. i hated to see my mother struggle. i hated the extra hours she worked, because during christmas, it always seemed like the more hours she worked, the less food we had. it was like she saved up every bit of food, money, time, and happiness until december the 25th…and until then–we all suffered.

and we tried our best to decorate our tree, with our multi-colored lights and the same bulbs for years. hung up stockings for candy, Post-It notes, and socks or gloves. and i never TRULY appreciated spending christmas with my mother…until i had to spend them with my father.

now, remember guys. i was a bitter little preteen/teen. my father had a new wife. he had a big house. he had other kids. and they had perfect lives. and i wanted nothing to do with that. they didn’t know what it felt like to have to cook your own dinner, how to clean a bathroom every time after you took a bath, or how to keep things inside the walls of our house because my momma said “everybody don’t need to know our business.” i never felt like i could relate because i never felt like they knew where i was coming from.

so i drifted off into my own world. wrote my feelings all over my walls. played my music as loud as possible. and locked my door. went to school, but never went to class. behaved just enough to get by. ate what i liked. hated church. and hated christmas.

hated how all of their ornaments matched, even the ones they made. hated the reef on the door. or the garner on the winding staircase and the lights on the bannister. hated lighting a real fireplace when i was barely used to central heating.

and on christmas, they got things that costed money. they got cellphones. they got clothes and bags from macy’s. they got trampolines. they got PS2’s. they got any and every thing they could have possibly dreamed of. and that was just at our house. they still had another stop to make, cards to get, presents that had been shipped.

i got giftcards. i eventually ended up hating every store i got those giftcards to as well.

and i cannot remember a christmas that i didn’t end up disappointed. either at the fact that my mother couldn’t get a new comforter from JCPenney’s for her bed because the engine in her car blew, or the fact that i burned with jealousy at the gifts my sister got compared to the ones i received.

but in actuality, if my stepmother had given me the things i wanted, i would have still been disappointed.

what can i say? i was an angry kid. i found anything to get mad at.

and christmas has been lackluster ever since.

maybe when i get older and have my own husband&kids, and feel the pain of store-to-store searching to make the gifts perfect, and seeing their faces on christmas morning as they open them…maybe then, the appeal will return.

when i can FINALLY give my mother the Christmas Morning she never had.

Dear Family and Friends,

Please take a moment to pray with us. 

Father,

We went to the Christmas Eve service at our Church which has a liturgy directed to children.  Johnny and Joy had a role to play in the entrance procession so we arrived early to get a good seat where we could watch them.  While we waited, one of the priests greeted the older woman and her son who sat in the pew behind us.  He mentioned that his sister lived on the West side of town but he mistakenly recalled the name of his sister’s parish, for a church that had closed many years before.  The woman identified herself as a member of another West Side church.  When the priest moved on to greet other parishioners, I turned to the woman and I wished the woman and her son a “Merry Christmas”.  I mentioned that I lived on the West Side, too, and we began conversing.  The son asked my name and I told him, Tom Miele.  The woman, on hearing my name, said that she had worked with a woman named Miele, and wondered if I was related.  The woman, she spoke of was my mother.  The woman and my mother had worked together in the early 1950’s.  She told me stories about my mother.  Hearing these stories made me feel my mother’s presence in a special way.  On this day when I learned that my wife’s cancer had returned, I felt an unexpected peace, that everything would be all right.  It might not be in the way that I expect, but the love of my mother, and the love of God will always be with me, carrying me through each day.

A Prayer for Memories

O, Most Merciful God,
What a gift I received
From an unexpected source.
A casual conversation
Following the wishing of “Merry Christmas”
Connected me with a co-worker of my mother,
From almost sixty years ago.
It brought forth a rush of memories,
And imagined scenes
Of my mother as a young woman.
Even though she has been dead for 15 years
I felt her love reach out to me
From a distant place,
Across time and space.
Yet, perhaps that love was closer than imagined,
Within my heart.
In thinking of my mother,
I think of one who will always
Care for me,
Protect me,
Love me.
In these days of doubt
Her memory is a comforting balm,
Reassuring me that love never dies.
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.

Peace,

Tom

god. we all hate them. you know you do, dont deny it.

the food.

the family.

the people.

the FAT.

UGH!

so obviously. im on vacation. two weeks. two weeks without structure, school, and starvation. since im home so much i need to eat more to satisfy my family’s suspicions. it sucks. and now, im writting to you wonderful people who read my blog from my aunts house. there are TOO MANY PEOPLE HERE! its me, my sister, my brother, my mom, my dad, my grandma, aunt 1, uncle 1, aunt 2, uncle 2, cousin 1, cousin 1’s husband, and their kid (second cousin).yeah.

i managed not to eat too much for most of the day. and then desert came and aunt 2 brought a whole platter full of different types of cookies and there was aunt 1’s toffe brittle, and just so many delicious sugary things. i caved, i had to have eaten like 8 cookies and 3 square inches of toffee brittle. i feel FREAKING DISGUCTING. i want to go in the bathroom and cry my eyes out. i hate feeling this full. i hate it so much.

iv been trying to exercise by bouncing my legs and walking around, but im pretty sure its not working. i guess i just need a little support right now.

ALSO. i made a post on whyeat.net about how researchers believe that anorexia is linked to wanting to stay a child, and im starting to agree with that more and more. my seconds cousin got all these presents and everyone was paying attention to him and i felt jealous. of a freaking five year old! i wanted to be the center of everyones attention. i wanted everyone to be taking my picture. i wanted all the presents. these days everyone just gets me like 15 bucks and then theyre done with me. its not fair. either that or i want to fade away. disappear so im just a spectator. im free to leave whenever i want to but i can always come back and enjoy the company thats close by.

i just want this to end. i hate holidays.

Spoke to family, listened to gifts being opened by nephew.

Spoke to the boyo, told me what Santa brought him and I listened carefully.  Told him I loved him.

Went for a walk and took pictures.

Had shower and succumbed entirely to virus.

(More photos on photoblog. Please forgive the stupid matte choices made by that dumb theme. I may just start publishing photos here…)

Merry Sniffle Sneeze Merry

Love,

Sick Octopus in Residence

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***

Doris, otherwise known as my Mother.  She was the only parent I ever had.  My father passed away when I was 9 months old.  She never remarried and I never saw her date anyone.  So I never had a “father figure” in my life while growing up.  She passed away on July 27th at the age of 83.

She taught me a lot (intentionally and unintentionally) of how to be a strong, independent, and single woman.  She quit school while she was in the 9th grade of high school.  I saw as I grew up what she had endured because of a lack of education and of being a single mom as I find my self today.  Thankfully she was able to get a decent job considering her education level that had good benefits/health insurance/pension.

She retired to Florida upon my insistence.  She bought a villa in a 55+ retirement city where she drove her golf cart to the drug store.  She loved that benefit living there – she did not have to use up any gas (she grew up during the Great Depression).  She joined the ceramics club, etc. and really just bloomed while living there.  I would pick her up on Saturdays to go grocery shopping with her.  Her retirement years in Florida were the most joyous for her.  I recently watched some old home movies with her shooting a gun for the first time, getting drunk for the first time, and of course of her singing.  She loved to sing. 

She called me everyday in the morning to let me know she was okay.  She lived 1/2 hour away from me.  Our agreement was if I did not hear from her by 12pm, that I would drive to her home to check on her.  The last 8 years or so of her life were not exactly how most of us would like to live.  She had some sort of a mini-stroke and ended up bedridden for her remaining years in my home.  I found a lovely woman, Audrey, who took care of her for me during the week and I took care of her nights/weekends.  During the spring/summertime she watched her grandson and his friends swim in the pool from her bedroom’s sliding glass door.  She would always sneakily feed my dog Bullet food when I was not looking.  Just 2 days before she died, while she was in the hospital, she was flirting with the male doctors that came into her ICU room to check on her.  Despite my mom’s situation, she always managed to laugh and have a good sense of humor!

I want to wish my mother a very Merry Christmas – love and miss you!

   The holy holly day is here! My mother and I go out, walking and wheeling. We enjoy a winter’s art show, (scenes of snow) and a bit of warm brie and some sweet little nibbles. It is a simple plan to share good cheer. What tickles her most is having hiccups.

   We sit by the ornamental fireplace to read Charles Dickens’ Christmas Stories, only to discover its workings have been given the day off. The book does fine; old lines tell new tales: 

   “Time was, with most of us, when Christmas day encircled all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections and hopes, grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes complete.”

   We explore the residential hallways, where almost every door has a red and green wreath of  some type, make or model. There are snowmen and snow women, Kris Kringle and bells to jingle. Pads and pencils for jotting hello. Pictures and stitchery.

   Three stuffed rabbits, each with a fat carrot, have been moved aside to make way for the wintry crowd of  poinsettia plants and presents.

   A large stone dog figurine stops us in our tracks. The dog is dressed with a red scarf. Its jaw permanently holds a basket; right now red flowers fill it. On a stand outside an apartment door rests a small artificial tree. The tree contains handmade natural ornaments that instantly transport us to the Brandywine River Museum, which makes an annual show of teasel- made-mice and other critters, some from pods and cones. The name plaque for the unit’s residents gives their former home address as Chadds Ford; they have come here.

   Almost everyone has a display: a wreath, a vignette, a greens and berries arrangement in an antique crock. Mystery elves have sprinkled the chairs, doors and elevators with cheerful, childlike cards and drawings of the season, some with rhyme, some with reason. 

   We locate a working fireplace in another public sitting room. We watch the flames lick the air. The chess set is not black and white; it is cream and white. A guest plays the piano. People assemble for dinner.

   We bundle up for a tour of the snow-coated garden. Real, colorful scarves accent the bronze statues of children in their summer clothing. The boy is ice fishing! The sundial casts no shadow. Inside we go. 

   Two ladies, Claire and Evanna, say hello to us in the hallway. We meet Claire by the aquarium. Claire is a rare name. Claire wears a warm red sweater with beaded snowflakes and showers my mom with affection. We meet Evanna by the Art Show. Evanna misses her late husband very much. Evanna says my mother is still beautiful. What gems in this setting, what gems!

How do you find the right nut necklaces they want to buy, you must consider some important things. These are the basics that you should consider whether to make sure that you want to get the best piece of jewelry for your mother.

To begin, you must ensure that the quality of the gems good. You're entering into a piece of jewelry for your mother, and this will mean their value. Thus, maximizing this opportunity and get highQuality of the parts for them. To ensure that you buy the right jewelry, collects only reliable and credible. This will help ensure that the mother necklaces that you will consider are of good quality. In addition, you may need to check your friends and ask for some advice when you save do not know the control of law.

The Internet can be to find the stores that you need help. It announced today that more businesses to go online, so they can reach more buyers. Youwill use it to better decisions. You will be surprised, precious jewels, the unique designs on the Internet than those in shopping malls can be seen. There are also store ratings to be able to know the background of the business and its services to other people. If you need to check if they sell pieces of quality, then you will know in a position feedback from other people. Are just to check and search the Internet.

Thethese decisions, search for the perfect Mothers chain is simple. There are more opportunities now more sellers who need to see better their products. Competition in the market, buyers want to get better products.

Another suggestion would be to buy a chain of mothers, as well as check the piece to be cleaned. You can ask the seller how the ornaments should be maintained so that the cleaning and maintenance of the jewels are safe. You must also knowother information such as the right materials to clean the jewelry, so you're not in a position, the workpiece can be damaged.

These tips are common for the purchase of a chain of mothers who did not forget. There are more things to consider, but this would be natural to want to control what your mother. You are about to give them to ensure that you consider their tastes and preferences. Consider what would likely have normal wear and opportunities that theyrejecting this will lead to the design of the chain or other jewelry that you choose to decide for them.

Now we need to have time to search for and the process of you like to go to your mother happy at the end of this research.

In the years after WWII, civil rights leader Clarence Jordan translated the gospels into what he called, The Cotton Patch Gospels.  With a profound knowledge of both New Testament Greek and the human spirit, Jordan set the familiar stories of Jesus into his own Jim Crow South to give people a flavor of what the original hearers might have experienced.  For today’s Gospel Lesson, I use it – along with Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase, The Message – to help us hear the familiar story of Mary and Elizabeth anew and afresh.

Luke 1:39-45 (The Cotton Patch Gospels)  Soon after this, Mary quickly packed up and went to a town in the hills of north Georgia. She arrived at the home of Zack Harris and greeted Elizabeth. And do you know what happened? When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby in her womb gave a kick. And Elizabeth bubbled over with Holy Spirit and shouted as loud as she could, “Praise the Lord for a woman like you! And praise the Lord for your baby! How did a thing like this ever happen to me—the mother of my Lord coming to me? Because listen here, when the sound of your greeting entered my ears, the baby in my womb kicked for joy. It’s a wonderful woman who has believed that the words spoken to her from the Lord will become a reality.”

Luke 1:46-55 (The Message) And Mary said,
   I’m bursting with God-news;
      I’m dancing the song of my Savior God.
      God took one good look at me, and look what happened—
      I’m the most fortunate woman on earth!
   What God has done for me will never be forgotten,
      the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others.
   His mercy flows in wave after wave
      on those who are in awe before him.
   He bared his arm and showed his strength,
      scattered the bluffing braggarts.
   He knocked tyrants off their high horses,
      pulled victims out of the mud.
   The starving poor sat down to a banquet;
      the callous rich were left out in the cold.
   He embraced his chosen child, Israel;
      he remembered and piled on the mercies, piled them high.
   It’s exactly what he promised,
      beginning with Abraham and right up to now.

Our text this morning gives us back-story on the Hollywood version of Christ’s birth.  Before there were shepherds in the fields abiding; before an angel of the Lord appeared and they were sore afraid; before there was a star or wise men or a wicked, old king; before there was any of that, there were just two women –  two mothers-to-be.  One of them was young and unwed, the other well past the age of child-bearing.  These things made them marginal, if not downright scandalous.  They were the kind of people most societies, including our own, tend to ignore out-of-hand.  And yet, in one of those delicious ironies salted throughout the Bible, these two women raise up the two persons who end up turning their world upside-down.

The younger one, Mary, has just received word from an angel that she will be the mother of God’s special agent, the Christ.  She decides to go visit the home of her cousin, Elizabeth, up in the foothills of Judea, some 80 miles away.  Elizabeth’s husband, Zachariah, was a worker at the temple in Jerusalem.  Not too long before, it was his turn to go into the spookiest part of the Temple, the Holy of Holies, to offer a blood sacrifice that would turn God’s wrath away from the people for another year.  When Zachariah came out again, he could no longer speak; he had seen an angel of the Lord in the Holy of Holies, but doubted its word, so the angel struck him dumb until what that messenger of God said would happen – that his wife would have a son – happened.  Shortly after that, Elizabeth discovered she was going to have a baby at an age when such things just don’t happen to a woman.  So Mary decided to visit her cousin, to share her own news and to encourage Elizabeth.

The scene opens with Mary’s arrival.  She greets Elizabeth and, suddenly, the whole thing turns into a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.  Everyone stops what they’re doing while the two main characters let loose with a couple of songs.  First comes Elizabeth’s song, kick-started – quite literally – by the new life inside her doing gymnastics on her bladder.  That somehow clued Elizabeth in to what Mary hadn’t even had a chance to tell her yet.   There was definitely a connection between her baby, who grew up to be John the Baptizer, and Mary’s baby who, as we all know, was born on Christmas day.  Elizabeth’s song, then, starts with a spontaneous “Woo Hoo!” for cousin Mary and the child she would bear.  Of course the implication of what she’d been singing must’ve sunk in pretty quickly because her next line went something like this: “Holy Hannah… you’re gonna be the mother of God’s special agent…  OMG!  And I know you!”  I can just imagine a few squeals between the two of them at that point that would’ve been right at home in the movie, Legally Blonde.  By the way, there’s a subtle dig at Elizabeth’s hapless husband in the last line of her song.  “Thank God, you believed the angel, Mary.”  What went unsaid was, “Unlike certain other people around here!”

Now we get to the set piece, the song that gives the whole scene its meaning.  We call this the Magnificat.  “Magnificat” does not mean a huge pet of the species Felis silvestris, but rather it means “expand” as in, “Let me expand on just how great God is.”  Just as the baby within would soon start expanding, Mary swelled up with song that God is both great and good.  She sang:

      I’m bursting with God-news;
      I’m dancing the song of my Savior God.

Mary’s song, the Magnificat, begins on the theme of undeserved favor, of how mind-blowing it is to be chosen by God.  Elizabeth had touched on that, too: How did a thing like this ever happen to me—the mother of my Lord coming to me?  But if Elizabeth was awed that she had a front-row seat, Mary was absolutely overwhelmed to be the person actually up there on stage.  “Can you imagine it?  God is bringing deliverance… through me, a young person in a society that values age; through me, a woman in a culture where men are the only ones who really count; through me, a single person in a world where marriage is the expectation for adult life.”   

Notice the tone of this Magnificat, this “expanding.”  Like so many of the songs sung by women in scripture, it presents a view of life from the underside, expressing the hope and faith of persons who live at the margins and on the edges of society, always just a hair’s breadth away from total and complete powerlessness.  Mary sang this as a young, unwed mother-to-be, someone whose prospects were not exactly what you would call bright, whose only hope was in the faithfulness of One who delivers the oppressed. 

    What God has done for me will never be forgotten,
      the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others.
   His mercy flows in wave after wave
      on those who are in awe before him.
   He bared his arm and showed his strength,
      scattered the bluffing braggarts.
   He knocked tyrants off their high horses,
      pulled victims out of the mud.
   The starving poor sat down to a banquet;
      the callous rich were left out in the cold.
   He embraced his chosen child, Israel;
      he remembered and piled on the mercies, piled them high.

Does it strike you as odd that Mary went straight from happiness to vindictiveness in her Magnificat?  She goes from what God has done for me will never be forgotten, straight to [God] scattered the bluffing braggarts [and] knocked tyrants off their high horses.  I suspect it sounds odd to us because we’ve all grown up with a view of ourselves as individuals.  We like to think we are in society voluntarily under a sort of “social compact,” as Voltaire put it.  Yet Mary sensed a deeper truth that what was happening to her was, in some way, actually happening to her people and, indeed, to all people.  Mary may not have been, as we say today, “politically aware,” but she knew that the undeserved favor she had received as a marginal person was a sign of undeserved favor for all marginalized people.  She knew that being chosen to bear the Christ child wasn’t so much a mark of distinction for her as it was a sign of God’s intention for all.

So… what about those oppressors?  Whatever else it may be, the Magnificat is the song of a prophetess, a woman who looked at the world, with all its hurt,  and said, “This is not acceptable;” a woman who, nevertheless, saw God already at work in that world not only knocking tyrants off their high horses, but pulling victims out of the mud.  She saw that God will seat the starving poor when, at the end of the world, everyone comes to the banquet, but that God will leave the callous rich out in the cold.  This is Mary’s God-news and it becomes our good news only so long as we’re not one of the callous rich. 

So I have to ask – I don’t want to, but I have to ask – which of the two must we not be: callous or rich?  You see, I am keenly aware, as are many of you, that compared with most of the 6.8 billion people alive today, I am rich, even though I never feel like it.  And another thing I realize is that being callous can be as simple as not paying attention to what is going on with those other six billion plus lives.  And whenever I consider my situation, whether as a “rich” or as a “callous” person, it comes to my mind that, according to Mary’s song, Christmas may just be the end of the world for me, or at least the end of the world as I have known it. 

For example, I read somewhere that, given our current technology and population, it will not be possible for everyone in the world to have the same standard of living you and I currently enjoy.  The resources for it are simply not there.  That puts us in the position of either choosing to live simply so others may simply live or choosing to turn a blind eye to the misery of people for whom Christ died.  Either way, Christmas spells the end of the world for us, but… and here is the good news for all… Christmas isn’t just the end of the world for anyone.

 Christmas is the beginning of a whole new world, a better world, a Magnificat world in which “God will dwell with us and be our God, and we shall be God’s people.”  Christmas is the beginning of a world where “God will wipe away our tears, dispel our doubt, remove our fears, and lead us out[; where] God will heal the broken-hearted, open the eyes of the blind, release the captives, preach the good news to the poor, and usher in the acceptable year of the Lord.”  This Christmas let us work and pray for a world in which “God will bulldoze the mountains and fill the valleys, … make the rough places smooth and the crooked ways straight [and] stand all people [up] on their feet so that all humankind may see God’s glory together.”[1]  Amen and amen.

My mom is a Panda protecting her cubs,

My mom feels like a warm pillow,

My mom smells like love,

My mom is nice like an angel,

My mom’s chocolate ship cookies cheer me up on a bad day,

My mom looks like a rose.

PS: A Poem For Mom is written by a boy named Tom on Mother’s day in his 2nd grade class. He was lucky to have Ms. Wisdom as his teacher, who encouraged the class to write poems, adventure stories about their favorite pets. I did not change a word, it is Tom’s original work and I am prod of his pure love for his mom.

I dedicate this poem to all Moms, either you are a mother-to-be, or a mother now, including those who have chosen to adopt children and threat them as their own.  Moms are great in your children’s eyes, don’t you?

Today is also Tom’s birthday, Happy birthday, Tom! You are a joy to have, you spread positive energy all over the places via your sentivitve eyes, tender mind, and cuty heart. Thank you for writing this beautiful poem for your mom, and for moms all over the world to share.

i have to stop because i’m hurting everyone.

i’m hurting my mom. so much.

we used to be sooo close. i always played CDs in the car on the way to the mall with her and BLASTED the music. like RIDICULOUSLY loud and BELTED it. she always complained about it but i know she loved it. we had so much fun together. for christmas, she gave me a tin box that says “to be yourself in a world that is trying to make you something else is your greatest accomplishment” (Ralph Waldo Emerson) inside is a note she wrote me, a CD of all those songs i used to sing, a “happy book” , a book called “Bounce Back”, and a car magnet that says “Be the change you wish to see in the world”. it’s all the things that she did because she cares about me that are amazing. and then the little hidden things she did inside everything. the Ghandi quote is my favorite. the words are in yellow–my favorite color. Emerson is my favorite poet. not to mention the CD thing is the cutest thing in the world. (our song, part of your world, i can hear the bells, stop, a whole new world, strongest suit, do you remember, take me or leave me, it’s all coming back to me now, wanna talk about me, mama i’m a big girl now, better together, let’s go girls, popular, the best day, i will always love you) i seriously keep crying. and i’m not a crier. it means a lot to me. and i’ve been pushing her away for all these years because i haven’t wanted to hurt her, but look what i’ve done. i’ve been so mean to her and i really just wanted to be loved. and i am.

i’ve been in therapy since july and nothing has changed. i haven’t had a good enough reason and i haven’t wanted to. being thin has been the only thing that mattered. but i’m over it. i’m over feeling like shit and hating my life and myself. i’m tired of hurting my mom, who i love more than anything. if i only got the damn tin box for christmas..it honestly would have been enough and i’m not *just* saying that. it really would have been. sure, i love my new dress and designer shoes…but knowing that i’m loved is enough. if you haven’t seen “The Secret Life of Bees”…go watch it. it’s a lot of what i’ve been feeling. (Lilly, Dakota Fanning’s character is searching for love…because she killed her mom and her dad hates her and there’s a lot of hate…) i think i’ve been feeling stupid and unloved…and seeing all of these things from my mom and how much she loves me means more to me than any amount of clothes or money ever would.

i’m stopping for my mom. for my friends, my family. for myself. so i can have a good life. so i can prosper and accomplish things. it’s not worth it to hurt myself like this.

no one deserves it.

not even me.

i love you mommy.

It is snowing outside this beautiful morning.  Even my teenagers were up at 7 a.m.  I placed this miracle on the calendar.  Mass was great with the super music.  Our parish is blessed with an enthusiastic music ministry director.  I pray all have a nice day, and a great year to come.  The Christmas Season has just started, and will continue till January tenth.  

MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to JESUS!

Jesus' Birth!

Quote or Joke of the Day:

 Every ten seconds, somewhere on this earth, there is a woman giving birth to a child. She must be found and stopped.

 http://www.oneliners-and-proverbs.com/

Today’s Meditation:

So they went in haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the infant lying in the manger.  When they saw this, they made known the message that had been told them about this child.  All who heard it were amazed by what had been told them by the shepherds.  And Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.  Then the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, just as it had been told to them.  (NAB Lk 2:16-20)

These verses are from the Mass at Dawn for Christmas Day.  The shepherd’s, and all others present were amazed, joyous, excited, and possibly even bewildered to some extent at what the angels have told them, and for the future of their Jewish race.  Though the shepherd’s were illiterate and outcasts; they were probably devout in the Jewish religion, and knew what ’savior’ and ‘messiah’ meant when said by the angels appearing to them.

 The shepherd’s ran to town, and to anyone willing to listen,telling others of what happened to them, and about the birth of a baby that would be king over the entire world.  I wonder how many took these shepherd’s, dressed in rags, seriously?  Were they mocked and ridiculed, as Jesus will be later in life?  Were the temple priests ‘in the know’ of what happened in a cave in their town; and were they concerned?

No one present that day fully understand what is happening with Jesus’ birth. Even 2000 years later, it is still impossible to fully understand all the ramifications and surprises in store for us through Jesus’ birth in that cold, dank cave.  God joined mankind in a human birth, so we can join him in His deaths; and eventual rising to eternal life in eternal paradise with the Lord..

Mary’s journey of faith, reflection, and glorifying of God is a model for our behavior.  We need to take Jesus into our hearts, minds, and bodies.  We need to die to Him, and allow His Holy Spirit to work through us. 

Pax et Bonum

Dan Halley, SFO

*****

Secular Franciscan Order (SFO) Rule #25:

Regarding expenses necessary for the life of the fraternity and the needs of worship, of the apostolate, and of charity, all the brothers and sisters should offer a contribution according to their means. Local fraternities should contribute toward the expenses of the higher fraternity councils. 

Been a long time since I read or saw any interpretation of the story of The Red Shoes, but the most important detail is that the dancer who wears the red shoes dances better than anyone else, but cannot stop dancing.  If memory serves, she dances herself to death.

I bought the red shoes pictured above my first year back in Canada.  They were waterproof but not particularly warm because they were trail running shoes, not winter boots.  I knew that when I bought them.  But I went for long walks with my then one year-old son on mostly cleared sidewalks so my feet were warm from moving.

Thinking about it now, I have no idea how I used them for three solid winters in this climate, but I did.  In fact, I probably wore them between 250-280 days a year for three years.  Partly because the winter’s and wet ground weather here lasts a long time and partly because much to the chagrin of one of my friends, I’m not much of a fashion plate.  T’is what it is.

Those red shoes were with me through some of the darkest days of my life so far, and for some of my strongest, most self-affirming days as well.  They were on my feet as I moved out of one life into another.  They were with me for my first winter in the new life.  Every step.  Every difficult, challenging, liberating step.  I scraped snow and ice off of the first car I’ve ever owned outright in my life in those shoes, I broke fingernails getting my son into his car seat in those shoes, I learned how to walk alone with music and take pictures to fill the time without my son in those shoes.

I came to recognize the tremendous burdens and freedoms of my life in those shoes.

I have never been more tired then I was when I wore those shoes.

I survived new causes of sadness in those shoes.

I learned how to be happy again in those shoes.

When I went to use them again this fall, they were ripped, they were worn out.  Done.  My first real walk in the snow this year, my toes were freezing together.  It was miserable.  I went to a local store and bought boots.  Real, leather, waterproof, fleece lined boots.  I wore them out of the store and put the red shoes in the box the boots had come in to carry them home.

I took the picture of them on  the floor because I knew I was going to throw them out and I knew I needed to honour them somehow.  I left them in the box and the box wound up in recycling.

The recycling wound up in a big pile by the door because the boyo got sick and I couldn’t leave the apartment to take it out.  The ex came to bring some supplies because the boyo had been sick long enough, I had been unable to leave the house long enough, that we were running out of a few basics.  On his way out I asked him if he would take out the recycling and trash for me.

He did.

I didn’t realize until days later that, in the end, it was he who through out my red shoes.

I asked him to and he did.  And it seems fitting, somehow, it seems right.

And I will learn to dance beautifully in my boots and in every pair of shoes I ever own.

And I will not dance myself to death.