death

Hello my fellow seekers,
This is a post from back in 2015.

It is my one and only Good Friday post so I trot it out every year on this day only this year it holds a bit more significance than the previous two since my deceased father has been around a lot more than normal.

As I wrote that I wondered about what constitutes “normal” when it comes to visits from dead relatives, but I have to say, in this instance, it has gone from almost never, to several times a week.

He arrives as cigarette smoke. Day, middle of the night, in my car, when I smell smoke—I know it’s him.
He hadn’t smoked in over twenty years when he died (of lung cancer) but he did my entire childhood and he LOVED it so I’m certain when he crossed over, as he stood at the Pearly Gates, they handed him the rule book, a white robe with M & M’s in the pockets, and an endless supply of Lucky Strikes.

We don’t chat like I do with the other disembodied ones. Apparently, he’s still not a chatty guy. But I will continue to ask him why he’s around and congratulate him on the use of cigarette smoke as his signal—it’s genius.

I hope this finds you all practicing devotion wherever you find it.

love you & Carry on,
xox

DEVOTION

de·vo·tion
dəˈvōSH(ə)n/
noun.
1.) Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity
synonyms: loyalty, faithfulness, fidelity, constancy, commitment, adherence,allegiance, dedication.

2.) Religious worship or observance.
synonyms: devoutness, piety, religiousness, spirituality, godliness, holiness, sanctity
“a life of devotion”

3.) Prayers or religious observances.

Devotion. What does that mean to me? What does it mean to you?

As a Catholic, I thought I had an idea, but the edges have blurred and I’ve been left to define it for myself.

This is an interesting time of year.
It’s ripe with the energy of endings; and new beginnings.
Deaths and re-births —— figuratively and literally.

We can practice our devotion inside this energy of change with Easter, Passover, the full moon, eclipses, and all other assortments of ancient and new age cosmic rites of passage.

Take me for instance; I am sitting as I write this, in a pew, basking in the warm glow of stained glass, inside of St. John The Baptist De La Salle Catholic Church— the church I grew up in — the church of my youth.

The one where I whiled away hour after hour of my childhood.
Some in innocent devotion, kneeling with sweaty little girl hands piously folded together, fervently praying my little girl prayers and later, in a pre-pubescent stupor, stifling yawns during my eight years there in the late sixties, early seventies.

Now, I’ve gotta tell ya, this retired Catholic is finding it…surreal to be back here, and I have to make this snappy.

I could spontaneously combust if the powers-that-be realize that I’m here, or the light from that stained glass baby Jesus hits me just right.

All kidding aside, recently my Catholic roots have been calling me. Their Siren’s song running lightly in the background of my life.

It all started when I began burning Frankincense incense in the mornings. I attempted subconsciously to counteract its effects on me by simultaneously playing a Buddhist chant with mixed results — that smell to me—still to this day–signals Lent.

Then I noticed, lo and behold it is exactly that time of year. Hmmmm…

That smell transports me back to Stations Of The Cross, a ritual of remembrance of the absolute worst day in the life of Jesus Christ.

As a little girl I loved rituals.
The smells, the cool, dimly lit ambiance, the notes played on the organ that resonated inside my chest and head, and the drone of the priest’s voice. They all conspired to “send me” to another place and time. They still do.

As I write this there is an actual organ rehearsal happening right this minute. Sending me…

Yet, even as that devout little girl, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around commemorating the days leading up to someone’s horrible, torturous, barbaric death and THAT little kernel of doubt, that one right there, started my life as a seeker.

Devotion as a religious observance.
I sat with my dearly departed father Friday in another church much closer to my home, (that now makes my church sitiing twice in one week, a personal record as an adult).

We sat together devoutly, he with his invisible hand on my knee to keep me from bolting during Stations Of The Cross, the first one I’ve sat throughout since eighth grade. It was faster and much…dryer than I remembered.

And no fragrance of frankincense — a crushing disappointment.

Still, I sat with my dad on the tenth anniversary of his passing… in a church…during Lent. And only one of us made it out alive…barely.

I’ll tell anyone I did it for him, but truth be told, that experience was calling ME.

Devotion.  

To others?  To a practice?  To a cause? 

I think we can all relate to that.

How about…

Devotion as Love and loyalty, enthusiasm for a person or an activity.

To tradition.

To family, friends, and matters of the heart.

To times past.

To ritual.

To the planet.

To sacred places; temples, sanctuaries, churches, nature, Sephora, the bakery.

To whatever sends you and floats your boat.

To kindness and courage.

To mala beads, crystals, chanting, yoga and meditation.

To ancient childhood memories resurfacing.

To triggers; Smells. Sounds. People.

I’m getting a bit misty-eyed over here.
It must be a combination of the lousy organ music (he just needs more practice), and the fact that my fifty-seven-year-old butt is currently seated on the same hard wooden bench that my innocently sweet, but always questioning, seven-year-old butt sat.

Devotion to change.
I used to believe that religion and spirituality were mutually exclusive.
One told you no, the other said… perhaps.

Call it old age, or just a general unclenching of the fists that happens naturally over time, but I’m finding myself more and more belonging to Team Meh where our motto is: “Well, that’s not my thing — but good for you!”

Devotion to Neutrality or I’m in a Switzerland State of Mind
Daily I struggle with judgment. I know, it’s just me.
I’m striving to be for more things than I’m against.

I feel like after this week I can move the Catholic religion to my neutral list. At last!

Some people hang out in groovy cafes and write. I sit weeping in Catholic Churches.

Who knows what’s next?

Can you explain devotion? What are you devoted to, I’d love to know.

Happy Easter & Passover my loves,
Xox

I was looking through some of the OLD posts from so long ago they were written on papyrus, and I came across this love poem. This was before it was explained to me by someone who should know that love never dies—that it crosses over with the person beyond death.

Don’t you love knowing that? I do. That we can love someone past the end of our time here?
My wish is that you guys get the same warm tinglies that I got when I read it again.
xox

If our souls live forever,
marking time inside each day,
if we share in this endeavor,
then I guess it’s safe to say,
I will love you past the end of time.

As we share this mortal coil,
and we wear a suit of skin,
never stopping at the endings,
waiting for each lifetime to begin,
There, I will love you past the end of time.

Life may bring the next adventure,
we never know where it will lead,
I will wait for you, my darling,
I will not miss you, there’s no need,
for I will love you past the end of time.

JB to her beloved RB

Dear Brave Ones,
Give it to m straight—Have you guys ever done this? Please tell me you have!
Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking my way slowly down the hill through the canyon to my hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

I craned my neck like Gumby or someone equally bendy to get a better look. From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how paved roads known as streets—filled with cars—lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the other cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my monkey mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Single mothers can never catch a break!

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement, it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that its luck had run out. Splat!

There it is! I could see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was quickly working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering had ended.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. Because it was true.! Forget stopping, no one was even swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing.

I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve around it all of you accomplices to murder!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time of reckoning had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I turn my head and look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was, this roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It turned out to be a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a possibility seeing that I was going to be under general anesthesia and since the thought had entered my head via the delivery system of mountains of paperwork I had to sign. This pre-op ritual made it clear that I would hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I become dead while not paying attention.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

Culpability. It’s a thing.
I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.
Sheesh.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about drugs that render you fake dead. And being cut open—they up your odds of becoming real dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, car accident, egg salad at the beach or a cheese sandwhich from a vending machine.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to life.

Everything felt like the last time so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that. Lemons were more sour.

And it’s definitive: I can’t stand cheap aftershave on men in elevators or vanilla candles.

I noticed things I tend to overlook. The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. Hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked in my neighborhood and forgot to bring my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I strolled. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Diet.
Walk on eggshells.
Work hard at much.

Then I got the flu and it suddenly felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.
Just like that. It has left my consciousness so completely that I can’t even conjure the feeling of it if I try.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and I took away something real.

My life.

Carry on,
xox

“Oh, the heartbreakingly beautiful tender weight of being human.” ~ Unknown

I’m tender-hearted.

Truly.

I know I may seem pretty cold-hearted sometimes, but I can be brought to tears by a beer commercial with big horses and dogs. And carols. Oh Holy Night or that incredible duet by Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli —that one slays me.

So, yeah. I cry easy. Especially at Christmas.

A “friend” sent me a story with the video of a Santa who was granting a terminally ill little boy’s wish to talk to him only to have the boy whisper at the end of their visit, “Santa, can you help me?” and then die right there in the bearded mans arms.  The man is undone as he weeps through the telling of the story.

Well! That was the cruelest of Yuletide acts so of course I was forced to rip up her Christmas card and eat the fudge I made her.

I will not post it here because it really is THAT sad, but if you need to see it with your own eyes it is currently doing the rounds on Facebook where I have had to do the equivalent of running past it for the past week lest I cry my eyelashes off.

But you’re not getting off that easy. I saw this video and just had to share it with you guys. It is the epitome of the Christmas spirit and that’s all I’m going to say. Except…

I was shocked.

I was touched.

I cried and then I wondered what Oprah,  I would have done in the same situation at the same age.

https://www.facebook.com/unbelievable.wow/videos/289671704767444/

What do YOU think?

Carry on my people,
xox

I was not one of those little girls who was afraid of her own shadow. As a matter of fact, I was pretty fearless.

I suppose I realized this at a relatively early age due to the fact that I had a friend, Lisa who was terrified of everything.
The world was a dangerous and terrifying place to poor Lisa.

She was afraid of dogs, big or small. Even hot dogs.
She was afraid of loud construction equipment.
She was afraid of heights.

Luckily, we outgrow some of our childhood fears. I heard Lisa went on to be a rocket scientist. I’m serious. At like JPL or NASA! The biggest friady cat I’ve ever known is sending people out into the dark vacuum of space.

The irony of it makes me laugh. And there’s another reason for my nervous laughter. The only fear Lisa and I shared was our fear of the dark. Of ghosts grabbing our legs as we ran to our beds, and pulling us down into hell.

Our night-lights had night-lights.

At sleep-overs we woke each other up to stand watch for the boogie man while the other trembled in her eight-year-old skin, trying to pee in the dark. Have you ever tried to pee while terrified? It’s an acquired skill.

We bonded over our shared fear. We understood it. We investigated suspicious bumps in the night together. We checked under each other’s bed with flashlights. We checked and double checked the primo ghost hideout—the closet. We even turned our dolls around so their dead eyes wouldn’t spook us in the dark.

You wanna know something else ironic?
Here you have two little girls who were deathly afraid of ghosts and the dark — one sits people on a literal bomb and sends them out where no one can hear them scream, and one has conversations about death — with dead people.

That’s right. I don’t talk about it a lot, but I hear dead people. They talk to me. And I’m not scared. Isn’t that crazy?

I used to be. I used to be unwilling, uncooperative, confused and embarrassed but over time that changed.

Listen, if a ghost reached out from under my bed and grabbed my leg I’d most certainly lose my shit (and don’t think I haven’t warned them about that), but in general—I’m okay with the talking. It’s not spooky at all. I tell myself I’m performing a public service, I’m hearing all about how great it is to be dead and I’m writing about the subject (at their insistence).

One thing I know for sure: The dead people I’ve talked to are happy and witty and “better than fine.”  They are interested in what’s happening with those they loved and for the most part they are feisty as hell. They are tired of being portrayed as spooks and ghouls—and don’t get them started on zombies!

In ancient Greece there was a name for those who were able to communicate with the ones who had passed—Walkers between the Worlds. Many cultures call them shamans. My friend Orna, who does a very advanced form of palm reading, grabbed my hand within an hour of meeting me and pronounced that I had “The mark of the shaman”  just as she’d suspected.

So there’s that.

Walkers are able to straddle the realm where the deceased reside…and do laundry and grocery shopping and sit in traffic. It can screw with you—but it’s mostly wonderful. Hey, I’m not special. I’m told that if we want to, we can all do it.

So, on this Dia de Los Muertos, this Day of the Dead, I’d like to honor all of my disembodied friends. Once I allowed them, they have added immeasurably to my life. And removed forever any fear of death. And to my childhood friend Lisa, who, it seems, overcame at least one of her fears, and to all the brave souls she sends out into space. May they return safely.

And if by chance they do not, don’t you worry about them. They are better than fine.

Carry on,
xox

My mom & Poppy lost their beloved cat Calvin Tuesday night. This is for them.

We all know how this story ends, yet death, as inevitable as we try to forget it is, surprises the shit out of us when it takes someone we love.

A pet.
A parent.
A sibling.
A close friend.

Pain is pain—because love is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love. (To quote Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant sonnet.)

But I believe that the risk of a broken heart is far outweighed by the innumerable rewards and blessings that love bestows.

Maybe you needed to hear this today. I did.

Carry on,
xox

“Grief; it covers you with the weight of a wet blanket and smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack—
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…it’s about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

~AN ALL AROUND FAN FAVORITE~(Notice how I’m not saying REPRISE)

Hi you guys,
I’m reprising this for Tracee, a reader from the Netherlands who has been looking for a way to explain death to her son. She remembered this post but couldn’t recall the name or who wrote it.

The Egg is an all around fan favorite and since I was also talking about death, and the fear of death yesterday with a couple of my girls, and since we have many new readers—I’m happy to reprise this for the third time!

Interesting tidbit about the short film: I haven’t seen if for a couple of years and I just watched it for the first time since finishing my screenplay. In my story, as dictated to me, the dead heroine in Heaven is perpetually munching on the snacks she keeps in her pockets, so I was surprised to see “god” pull an ice-cream cone out of his jacket in the video.

I love when that happens.

Carry on,
xox

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me.

“What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God.
I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe.
More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders.
“Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had. You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh, lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life, you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

A short film Adaptation: The takeaway…be nice, and have fun.

Sounds counterintuitive. Right?

But if we armour up, we fall prey to exactly what the cruel ones want. We turn on each other…

What a fucking nightmare of a week this has been.

But remember.

The world is not cruel. Only a few.

Say that again.

The WORLD is not cruel—only an angry few who view things as so hopeless that they see no way out other than violence.

Anger is sad’s bodyguard, remember?

Be courageous. Try to stay in your heart.

Get angry—then get back to your heart.

Be sad—then find your way back to your heart.

Feel hopeless—then search for love. That’s what I’m attempting this weekend.

Carry on,
xox

I heard a statistic today. One that I found so hard to believe I had to look it up—and it’s true—and it put me over the edge.

There are more gun dealers in the U.S. than there are Starbucks in the ENTIRE WORLD.

Now, here is why I find that so hard to believe. I’ve traveled pretty extensively and that’s the one thing, good or bad, that you can count on seeing in a foreign country.
A Starbucks. Oh, and a KFC.

I’m at a loss here you guys.

And I’m pissed. And I don’t like to post my rants, but after talking to numerous people the past couple of days, I know I’m not alone in feeling…sad…confused and mad as hell!

After the events of this past Sunday morning, I just have to go on record as saying, how fucking sick I am of these mass shootings.

What are we to do?

Vote?

Our politicians are bogged down by partisan rhetoric. The two party system is in shambles, while fear and rage, two very dangerous bedfellows, have hijacked a cross section of our citizenry and are fanning some very scary flames.

We are assured that the background checks will stop any “bad guys” from being able to buy guns.
And just for the record, I’m sure any self-respecting bad guy gets his guns from other bad guys at the bad guy gun shop located in the back of some bad guy’s garage. He doesn’t fill out paperwork and wait the three days for the background check to clear…

Or does he?

This guy had been questioned repeatedly by the FBI and was even on some kind of terrorist watch list and yet—he was able to purchase an assault weapon a couple of weeks ago along with a regular handgun.

And in a twisted case of truth is crueler than fiction, can you guess who does the background checks?
The FBI.
They missed a guy—on a watch list—who was buying an assault rifle. I feel safe.

While we’re at it let’s talk about the AR-15, shall we?
This is a weapon of mass destruction that has killed innocent elementary children at Newtown.
Innocent movie-goers in Aurora.
Innocent student and faculty in San Bernadino.
And innocent party-goers in Orlando.

And it can be obtained legally.

Can we just all agree, once and for all, in the complete INSANITY of a private citizen being able to own a military weapon? An assault rifle?

Don’t argue with me on this. I’m not in the mood!

This time, the guy targeted gays and latinos. Then he pledged allegiance to Isis.

Not my problem! you say. (Not you guys, because I know you would never say that, but people do).

They pissed him off, somehow. You wanna know why? Because he wasn’t paying enough attention to his own life—he was judging theirs.

Which puts us ALL in the crosshairs. Who is watching you right now, hating what you stand for?

What if someone decides that blonds are fair game?
Or big mouths?
Or cat owners…because…well, cats.
What if a person decides that all bald men are evil?
Or guys who drive pick-ups.
Or people with children?

So we have to heighten out vigilance. Right?

That turns us into a nation of raging, paranoid separatists who are paying way too much attention to what the other guy is doing.

Who do we keep from immigrating? Whose records do we scrutinize? Who do we keep an eye on?

Men? These mass killers are mostly men.

Muslims?

The mentally ill?

Those with anger management issues?

Where does the list end?

When does it stop?

I’m at a loss here. I really am.

Someone explain this to me so I can be funny tomorrow.

Carry on,
xox