religion

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 love this post from last year. I sat with my dearly departed Dad, In a church. wtf? Actually, church has been calling me again this year, not to sit through a mass, just to sit — what’s up with that?
Tradition. Life, Death, Love. Maybe you guys can relate.
Love you!
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 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. (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 religious observance.
I sat with my dearly departed father Friday in another church much closer to my home, (that now makes it 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

Carry on,

xox

Because it’s Sunday.

Carry on,
xox

*Hi You guys,
You may have already seen this, its been around for a couple of years, but it’s new to me. It’s right up my/our alley. Thought provoking musings about life, death and God—with a dash of humor.
As always, take what you like and leave the rest. Oh, and tell me what you think.
Oh, oh, and read Andy’s novel The Martian. I finished it in two days.
I guess that’s it.
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. An in to 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:

I was at a meditation the other day at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine Temple.
They hold them at noon on Wednesdays and I happen to think they’re lovely. They are led by a different delightful monk who obviously drew the short straw at breakfast that morning. I say that because even though on any given Wednesday there are only between fifteen to thirty people, that is still a room full of men and women looking and listening to you, and that constitutes public speaking.

Public speaking is terrifying. It is the subject of most people’s nightmares. But when it is done well it is an art, and sadly, not one that these monks possess.

That’s okay, they’re monks for god sakes. Trying to teach an ancient form of focused concentration to twenty-first-century human beings is no picnic. There’s no slide presentation or inspirational music. There is not a lick of wit or charisma.

My guess is that if they had wit or charisma — they may have chosen a different career path.

Nevertheless, this past Wednesday did not disappoint. Our monk was a perfectly nice fellow, and from the sound of his accent, he was born in Germany or somewhere else in Bavaria. At one point in the meditation, just before entering the silent part, he instructed us in the droning tone of his motherland: “Jus bahsk in da peasful praysence of Scott.”

What? Who’s Scott?

My eyes shot open and darted around the room to see if anyone else had heard what I had?

Scott?

His low-toned, semi-melodic droning continued and I heard it again. “Comb baaack to Scott”

Ohhhhhh… God. He’s saying God! It’s his accent that makes it sound like Scott.

Wait, I kinda like that name for God.
I shut my eyes and tried to join the flow, but my mind was reeling.

That name could really work nowadays, you know, from a PR standpoint, and here’s why:

My Three Reasons To Call God Scott—

1) There are so many frickin’ names for the Divine One.
It can be so confusing and extremely politically incorrect. Choose a religion, take your pick. Adonai, Yahweh, Jehovah, The Almighty, the Universe. Scott would tidy things up, unite everybody and keep the zealots from getting all hot under the turban.

2) Scott feels so…current. So…mid 2015. It makes God sound kinda hip; grown-up but accessible. It’s less polarizing than say, Piper, Keanu or River and friendlier than Zoltar.

3) In the Bible, God instructed the Israelites to avoid using his name (kind of like The Artist Formally Known as Prince), in a useless, disrespectful way. Instead, the Israelites were supposed to revere the name of God and use it in a serious, considerate way. Many of the ancient Israelites were so respectful of the name of God that they would not even pronounce it or write it for fear of using it in vain.

(My first name ain’t baby, It’s Janet, Miss Jackson if your nasty). Those who did write it would often throw away the quill they had used, because they thought that any quill that had written God’s name was holy and should not be used for regular words.

Taking this to the most absurdly literal place imaginable, Dr. John Hagee, the founder and senior pastor of the Cornerstone Church in San Antonio, Texas, not only agrees with what the Good Book says, but also takes the faith to a level of fanaticism.

Asked how the situation could be bettered, Hagee replied: “Well, we’d have to start with ourselves, as with everything in life. If you’re asking about my personal opinion, there is no greater sin in terms of wrongly using God’s name than women who use it during sex. That is one of the filthiest, most derogatory and sinful uses of the Lord’s name I can think of. If it were up to me, I would put every single woman or girl (wtf?) who does that in jail.”

I would bet my house on the fact that Reverend Hagee himself has never heard that word used during sex–but he’s heard that it happens and he wants it stopped!

Oh, and by the way, jail is not the place to end that practice. Just sayin’.

So you see, Scott would work beautifully here. All parties would be up to speed when the woman yelled “Oh Scott; go Scott; give it to me Scott!” just before reaching ecstasy. No harm, no foul, nobody’s offended, nobody has to be incarcerated.

Hey, and if the guy’s name was Scott, well, that’s just a synchronistic bonus.

I think you can agree with me, now that I’ve made such a convincing and compelling argument, that we should change God’s name to Scott. So how do we start? Does anyone know who we talk to first?

Carry on,
xox

What in this moment is lacking?

You guys know how I love to collect quotes. I’m obsessed. Seriously. I’m a quote hoarder. Like I need to go to quote rehab. It’s all the stuff I wished I’d said. I guess it stems from quote envy…

Anyhow…Here are a few from that Rob Bell seminar last week that I thought could get you thinking.
They certainly did that for me. Some are so good you’re going to want to embroider them on a pillow or tattoo them on your face.

There are several from Rob, and the rest come from his invited speakers, who by the way were all brilliant.

So. “What in this moment is lacking?” Let’s start with that one by Rob Bell, shall we?

Nothing.
And that’s the problem. Our brains are constantly in search mode, looking, determined to find it. That thing that each moment lacks.
And you know what? Do that for long enough and you’ll have a list as long as your arm.

But in truth the answer is — nothing.
This moment lacks nothing.

It is the springboard, the jumping off place for the next and the next and the next. It is packed full of potential if you can change your perspective.
Try it.
You can always refer back to your long list.

Pete Rollins, I don’t know too much about him but he seemed like someone you’d want to share a pint or two with. Tons of hardscrabble wisdom in the body of a leather jacket wearing, truth talking Irishman.
Pete’s quotes have layers and layers of depth to them. Watch out!

“Fulfill your dreams so you can realize the abject horror of their impotence.” – Peter Rollins
(WTF?! This one could fuel the entire imaginary dinner table conversation that I have with world figures and people I admire.
What would Jon Stewart have to say about THAT?)

“Church should be like the Irish pub” – Rollins (No judgement, everyone’s welcome.)

“God is found in the midst of life, not the escape of it.” – Rollins (Talking about the argument that God can be found in hallucinatory drugs)

“We all have ghosts that become poltergeists. If you let them come out they become holy ghosts.” – Peter Rollins

If I could put my hand on your head and make you live forever but not experience the depth of life, I’m not a god. I’m a devil.  – Peter Rollins
(Here he was talking about the brevity of life and the role that the fear of death plays — See! I warned you. )

“Loneliness is the most lethal condition in existence.” – Rob Bell (talking about the lack of real connection even in this world of instant messaging, FaceTime, etc.)

“Before you can be free for life, you must be free from yourself.” – Rob Bell (you guessed it — free your demons)

“Ideas need flesh and blood.” – Bell (Regarding creativity and the reason our Muses choose us to execute their ideas.)

“Follow the joy” – Bell (the answer to someone’s question, “How do I find my path in life?”)

“It is such a letdown to rise from the dead and have your friends not recognize you.” – Rob Bell (Here he’s talking about when WE reinvent and rise from our own ashes and lose all our friends in the process because they just can’t relate to us anymore.)

“We turn graduations into divorces because we stayed too long.” – Rob Bell (Can’t we all just agree? Things just run their course?)

Speaking of creativity, this was from the Q & A with Carlton Cuse (the writer of LOST)

Q- “how much of the creative endeavor is luck and how much is hard work?”
Cuse – “almost none of it is luck.”
Ha! I love that! Almost none of it. I’m a firm believer in the saying “luck is when opportunity meets preparation.”
What about you?

These two are from Vicki Beeching who was enjoying her life as a devout Christian and writer and singer of inspirational music, but hiding a secret until it literally made her sick — the fact that she’s gay.

“When we worship certainty, we are attempting to tame the Lion.” – Vicki

“The only way to love and serve those around me is to be myself.” Vicki Beeching

I’ll leave you guys with these two to ponder, both by Rob Bell:

“Is this it?” is the existential thud of the American dream” – Bell (That thud was the sound we all heard as we grew into adulthood in the 20th century. I was wondering what that was.)

“A tribe to bless other tribes? That was a new idea. What does it look like for the U.S. to bless the world?” – paraphrased Rob Bell

What would that look like? I think it would look very much as it’s starting to look today.
One person at a time.
Being grateful.
Showering blessings.
Paying it forward.
Again and again and again.
Because this moment lacks NOTHING.

Carry on, I love you guys,
xox

I just came back from two days immersed in one part progressive religion, two parts spirituality, and three parts humor.
Which, as long as you’re asking, is a very compatible cocktail combination for me.

And surprisingly, there was cursing and f-bombs — like the cherry on top.

I went with my sister to see Rob Bell Keep Going 2105 in Laguna Beach California.

We were turned on to his dynamic motivational speaking at the Oprah Tour last fall.

He has a background as a pastor, but he is not all Jesus this and bible verse that (which would have simultaneously turned me off, put me to sleep and set my hair on fire). He has a brand of progressive spiritual humor that I could get with.

The other speakers involved were articulate, smart, funny, touching, creative and completely engaging. I loved them all.
Check them out:

Rob Bell is a bestselling author, international teacher, and highly sought after public speaker. His books include The New York Times bestseller Love Wins, along with What We Talk About When We Talk About God, The Zimzum of Love, Velvet Elvis, Sex God, Jesus Wants to Save Christians, Drops Like Stars. At age 28 he founded Mars Hill Bible Church in Michigan, and under his leadership it was one of the fastest-growing churches in America. In 2011 he was profiled in Time Magazine as one of their 100 most influential people. Rob was featured on Oprah’s 2014 Life You Want Tour and will be speaking at venues around the world in 2015 on the Everything is Spiritual Tour. He and his wife Kristen have three children and live in Los Angeles.

Vicky Beeching—
Vicky Beeching is an Oxford-educated theologian, writer, broadcaster and keynote speaker. She appears regularly on BBC TV, Sky News and writes for publications like The Guardian and The Independent. She’s been profiled by The Huffington Post, BBC World Service and Time Magazine Online. Vicky advises the United Nations on LGBT equality and religion. She is based between London, England and Washington D.C., USA.

Carlton Cuse—
Arthur Carlton Cuse is an American screenwriter, show runner and producer, most famous as executive producer and screenwriter for the American television series Lost for which he made the Time magazine list of the 100 most influential people in the world in 2010.Harvard graduate Cuse is also considered a pioneer in transmedia storytelling.

Peter Rollins—
Peter Rollins is a provocative writer, philosopher, storyteller and public speaker who has gained an international reputation for overturning traditional notions of religion and forming “churches” that preach the Good News that we can’t be satisfied, that life is difficult, and that we don’t know the secret.

Peter gained his higher education from Queens University, Belfast and has earned degrees (with distinction) in Scholastic Philosophy (BA Hons), Political Theory (MA) and Post-Structural thought (PhD). He is the author of numerous books, including Insurrection, The Idolatry of God, and The Divine Magician. He was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, currently lives in Los Angeles and will die somewhere as yet not known.

Pete Holmes—
Pete Holmes is a comedian. Maybe you know him from his podcast You Made It Weird. Or The Pete Holmes Show! Or his videos with FrontPage Films. Maybe you saw his hour special Nice Try, The Devil, or his half-hour Comedy Central Presents. Or on Conan. Or Jimmy Fallon. Or maybe you saw him on VH1. Or heard him as the e*trade baby or on Comedy Central’s Ugly Americans. I mean, who knows. Pete also draws cartoons for The New Yorker, wrote for NBC’s “Outsourced” and FOX’s “I Hate My Teenage Daughter.”

Crazy good, right?

I love attending these things. When they work. There have been instances where I’ve been locked in a room for days with a bunch of New Agey crazies; but this seminar was nothing like that.

This one really hooked me in and everything I suspected about life was confirmed.

And here it is in a nutshell: Human DNA sequences are over 95% identical to chimpanzee sequences and around 50% identical to a banana.
AND
We are so much more alike than we are different.

We all ache with loneliness;

None of us can answer the question of why we are here;

We all spit fire when you fuck with our kids, our loved ones or our core beliefs;

Everyone fears death;

Nobody likes their boat rocked;

Most everyone is afraid of failure;

Mullets are universally abhorred;

and no one has yet to explain God or get his direct mailing address and phone number.

I love knowing that — don’t you?

I sleep better at night knowing there are others like me; curious pain in the asses, who are looking for answers, but more importantly wonder.

Bottom line: Freedom and wonder.
Seems most of us want to be free enough of fear to find the wonder in life.

We all want wonder. A life filled with WONDER.

We want to feel ALIVE and laugh and gasp…a lot… to have miracles and mystical, magical experiences mixed in with paying our taxes and driving carpool.

Is that too much to ask?
Apparently not so much after these last few days.

Don’t you guys also love knowing that at any given time there are hundreds of people just like you gathered together trying to figure out how to make that happen – for everyone?
I do.

Carry on and peace OUT!
xox

Photobomb of Rob Bell with Me, Sue and Patti:

There she floats, on a cloud, halo glowing, with cherubs at her feet.
Her disapproving eyes cast upwards toward the heavens, beseeching God to take mercy on my shriveled up raisin of a soul.

Casbah Mary.

She is my backyard-living-room Mary, who inhabits the outside “casbah” as it has come to be known — or the den of inequity, as I’m sure she would refer to it.

Shit goes down back there.
Being that it is the most used area of our house, it is where you will find copious amounts of food, wine and gossip, cigarettes, raunchy stories, raucous laughter, unending barrages of f-bombs and sex (I think there was sex, I can’t remember anymore) and did I mention waaaaay too much booze? (probably why I can’t remember).

She hears it all. She bears witness. Hands crossed over her chest, feigning an imminent heart attack, shocked at all the hedonism,

She watches it all without uttering a word. There’s a lot to be said for stoic silence.

The little naked cherubs just giggle, they’re like honey badger — they don’t give a shit.

You see, I hung her out there for a reason.
For protection and guidance — not judgement; yet my Catholic upbringing makes me want to apologize to her when it gets particularly salacious back there. I often lower my voice and wince when I curse, or throw a “sorry” in her direction when I let a “fuck” fly.

I had a friend pause once, in the middle of a juicy story, and beg me to turn Casbah Mary toward the wall, “I swear, her face” she grimaced, emptying her wineglass, “she looks disappointed in me — like my mother!”

Although she reigns supreme over the virtual Valley version of Sodom and Gomorrah, Casbah Mary has bestowed her heavenly grace on her surroundings several times: saving things from breaking, warding off criminals — even blowing around so wildly in a windstorm late one night after a party, making such a racket, that I got out of bed to investigate, only to find that we had left all of the candles burning…in a windstorm…hey, I said there was too much alcohol.

Can you say thank you and I’m sorry in the same sentence?

Thank you Casbah Mary and your creepy little naked babies — for gracing a wall of our home and protecting our family; for remaining silent in your obvious judgement of our shenanigans – and I’m sorry about all the shit we put you through from March thru October.

Carry on & Happy Sunday you guys,
xox