Tag Archives: women

Conference Findings

This past weekend I went to the United Methodist New York Annual Conference in Garden City, NY. Why they can’t call it the New York and Connecticut Conference I am questioning, but that’s another whole topic.  This writing is about the issue of gays and transsexuals in the church.

This is my first conference.  A lot of legislative activities go on during the course of the weekend.  I was shocked to find out there is a profound division in the Church.  It is hanging precariously on a thread regarding the LGBQ issue.  The Biblical conservatives in the Church are demanding that LGBQ and other sexually different people, should not be allowed in the Church – whether it be marriage, ministers, or even in congregations.  The Church might divide into two seperate denominations because of these matters.

The other, more Liberal persuasion believe we are all God’s children and everyone has the right to live their lives as they are meant to.  Even the issue of whether Women should be pastors has been a loaded one in many denominations.  The Catholics are also struggling to find their Center.  Everything goes back to Leviticus and the apostle Paul.  Two plus centuries ago.

This issue has come up in my own family, with my children believing conservatively and I believing a more liberal, inclusive approach to Christianity.  This may rattle many cages, but I believe the LGBQ group brings more openness and diversity, obviously.  But they also can bring fresh interpretations and vital ideas to congregations.

This may prevent me from getting into Heaven but I believe all have the right to worship openly.  Jesus had all kinds of people, most being the underappreciated, displaced, rejected members of society, in his circle of influence and accomodation. Not once did I read in the Bible where someone was rejected.  And Jesus had one whom he loved more than all of the rest….what does That even mean?

At the Conference, I saw quite a few gay and lesbian people.  A couple were Pastors.  Depending on the status of the vote in St. Louis in the Fall, what could that potentially mean for them.  “Hey sorry, but you no longer are a minister, don’t have a job, and aren’t welcome to attend Church. ”  What is that?  How can you take people who are actively sharing their Faith and leading their congregations toward a more open, accepting view of the World, and throw them out like yesterday’s garbage?

My children do not consider me to be a true Christian.  I’m not going to Heaven unless I radically change my belief system and values.  I believe God is more accepting…that love is more important than orientation…that the most important thing you can do is Believe in Jesus Christ and the Trinity.  I might not get to Heaven because I question sometimes whether Jesus was the son of God but I wouldn’t really want to be in a Heaven that draws lines, makes distinctions, rejects people because of who they are from the moment they are born.

I pray the Church remains whole in its entirety and those believing diversely get the opportunity to believe in diversity and inclusiveness, no matter the sex or orientation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chaos of Feeling

Don’t woo me so gently
take me hard and fast
scorching the skin
in the intensity, the
blaze of your fiery passion
Please forget the tender touching,
the quiet communion of souls,
the silent reaching out
for understanding and warmth.
Wrap me in a spinning inferno
of feelings, rock the ground
upon which my  feet tread.
Let me feel those butterflies
of infatuation, too soon gone.

Don’t go so slowly
that I come to know
the secret person behind
the mask of illusion,
one you want me to see –
I don’t want to know your soul –
for if I do –
I may never wish to let it go.

Don’t court me with flatteries –
flowers, endearments –
for coming to love you
would hurt far more
than burned fingers ever could.

(No, please, take me slowly, gently –
cover me with kisses sweet with desire,
warm me in your quiet glow –
let me know that the love
I so dread feeling –
so achingly seek but mask in fear,
is possible in your arms.
Don’t leave before I can feel
the pain of your embrace
one more time – and time again – and…)

Aunt Lillian

Thank you isn’t enough
for what you’ve given me.
Words have no meaning
in a world of emotions.
When I hit bottom
crawling on hands and knees
a hand was outstretched
in quiet support. . .
love without strings.

I saw hope through your eyes
gained strength in the purring
of your voice
learning you saw something
I didn’t but that must be real.
Learning  to believe in me
through the respect in your eyes
caring for myself
while you questioned after my health

I can never repay unconditional love
but through your giving
perhaps the lesson can be learned
and one day
I can attempt to love
somebody else
as you have loved me.
Thank you – my mentor, my friend.

 

 

Perspectives

They yelled, shouted, screamed . . .
The old man with tears running
in the wrinkled rivulets of his skin.
The old woman babbling to her voices
giggling like a girl
or reigning supreme . . .
all attention on her.

The old man may too soon
buckle under the strain of her care,
under the lack of care to himself –
a good man, a kind man,
who wants the best
for a woman who would rather
listen to her voices
than be with him.

Their son firmly believes
in her right not to take medications
which would normalize her life
at least in fractions
of the beautiful woman
so terribly traumatized
by the Communist government
that over rid her land, her people,
making her beg for an egg for her child.

The triangle continues
but not as fierce as this
those watching hearing her secrets –
her hitting of a mate of 60 years
over and over again.
He sitting by her bed
for months at a time
when she was in crisis
and unable to rise and rejoin the world.

How her son snatched
roles of husband, father, son –
emasculating the man who deserves
so much more
by not respecting his father’s
needs, wants, care and pain.

While the old man’s tears course down,
and the babble of voices
inside her head
swirl madly around.

Target . . . Me

I was reading a new blog, Awkword and what Michelle has asked us to do in choosing a target audience and I realized not only do I not have one I am aware of, but I don’t know who the target me is.  I have lived alone for 20 years. No dating, not a really active social life, and though there are some reasons why, I also find myself saying, once in a while, why not?

My writing can tend to be somewhat, or very, on the dark side.  I have a low to mid grade bipolar condition.  It keeps me more on the depressed or withdrawn section of life.  I also have a boat-load of physical issues and have for all those years and before. So I suppose I might draw people who have similar issues.  These can range from the conditions: once I was on O2 for 2 12 years and have had asthma, chronic eosinophilic pneumonia, and emphysema in greater or lesser strengths for all my adult life.  Fibromyalgia dogs me. I lost more than 3/4 of my intestines and gall bladder when I went septic and my systems shut down and was in a coma 3 weeks.  When I woke it was to complete loss of muscle memory.  This past year I had back surgery which didn’t help. I’ve had a migraine most of the last three months.  See what I mean?  There is more but that alone can make for a target audience.

I have Traumatic Brian Injury – caused during the coma, but which creates its own set of problems.  My memory is not always reliable. I suppose it is an understatement.  My sister calls it CRAFT – can’t remember a fucking thing.

Because of these factors, I am legally disabled. Work is hard. Complex assignments are too hard to process. Simple assignments bore the crap out of me.  I can’t work too much because Medicaid and my body won’t let me.  So I have been a caregiver for numerous years. I started off as a Business Management Consultant with clients all over the country.  Quite the let-down.

I am a mother of two twenty somethings 3,000 miles away from me and happy that way. They are living their lives well and that is the most any mother could ask.  But I live near my sisters and my 8 year old nieces are my delight.

Oh yes,  I am a recovering drug and alcohol addict – and food.  I have been sober from alcohol for more than 35 years with a 5 year break for a 5 year addiction to prescription pain killers which ended 11 years ago and had a horrible effect of my kids, especially my daughter. So there’s guilt and shame I can’t seem to let go of.

AND – I’ve wanted to be a writer  and missionary all my life.  I’ve been published a few times and I have an opportunity to go on a mission in 2017.  Until then I do what I can here.  I write a lot of poetry, some memoir pieces, and non-fiction articles  about women who have achieved greatness through tremendous adversity.  I write about what I know and want to know; what is inspirational to me and religion and spirituality.

So if you can find a target audience in all that, except that I probably sound very self-involved . . . playing with my navel and all that; let me know. And I still have to figure out pages, widgets, you name it.  Learning to be a good blogger is taking a long time . . . did I tell you about my TBI?

I welcome tips and comments.  I truly want to grow. So give me a hand why dontcha’.

 

 

Relationships

THE VICTIM

Her eyes, wellsprings of pain,
hinting of torture,
black circles under rims,
dark enough to leave one to ask,
whether they are bruises or not?
Movements covert,
a shrinking in upon oneself,
cowering in anticipated trauma,
knowing too well
one hit follows another,
but desperately trying to fend off
the next,
standing in a void, an emptiness
of pleasure, thinking somehow
these blows are restitution
but of what she can’t fathom.
An atonement of some past life.
Not willing to speak out,
to draw attention to herself,
the glimmer of life though
still seeks to shine,
in the trembling beauty,
the grace of hand,
a consciously remembered
knowing of her right to exist.
She will persevere,
and, hopefully survive.
Her body no longer carrying bruises,
her soul remembering
but no longer blanketing itself
in pain.

Lillie, Earth’s Angel

Being alone, truly and completely alone, should not be a burden carried by a human being for long. I’m not so sure we were born for it. Our lives are such fragile existences just as they are – it only takes one blow to unhinge the mechanisms which hold us together. There are few who can survive for long in such conditions. I was lucky enough to have known a woman who had survived essentially alone in a cacophony of insanity for forty years.

In her late twenties, Lillie immigrated from Sweden to marry the love of her life. Two weeks after she married, he died. A new foreigner, not able speak the language, not knowing a single soul, she had a nervous breakdown and committed to the Wingdale Mental Hospital. She was put to work washing floors. Just as she was getting better, she fell and broke her hip. Arthritis quickly set in to immobilize her.

My mother was a charge nurse at Wingdale State Hospital in Wingdale, New York. It was a facility where the elderly and mentally unbalanced were housed until the 1970’s when the government dismantled them and dumped most of the inpatients onto the streets, ostensibly to be cared for by the communities in which they lived. In reality, few received the necessary care. Mom worked in the wards for the elderly insane women. It was there she met Lillie when Lillie was in her sixties or seventies.

Mom was appalled by the conditions these women suffered – cold water showers on mental gurneys that was essentially waterboarding. Bed sores from not being turned. Diapers not changed for hours, indigestible food. She reported all the aides and began a campaign to close down the facility, writing up to Rockefeller, then governor of New York. She eventually succeeded.

While Charge Nurse on that floor, she arranged for a private room for Lillie, wading through a multitude of paperwork to do so. Until then, and after, she brought me and some women from the church to visit her regularly. She was given a radio to hear music and connect to the outside world. The thing is, Lillie spent all her time praying for us, for people she heard needed help from the Lord. There was nothing in her that thought for herself.

Mom wanted to remove her from the hospital, even thinking of bringing her to our home if a good residential home could not be found. Just as Mom got permission to release her, they found she was riddled with cancer and only had a couple of months to live. The Doctors felt it would be too much of a shock on her system to release her.

I remember Lillie as a being of light, an angel on Earth. I say that not for its poetic value or to milk emotion. It’s a fact. No one could live forty years in an open ward of a state hospital for the mentally challenged, with nineteen other women, and amid constant clamor, no one to talk to and still stay sane. Not only that, but to pray continually for others, never herself.

She certainly didn’t get mental stimulation from the aides. How did she do it? Monks and other religious individuals who live in isolation do it when they are either by themselves or living in a community designed to support mutual silence. But Lillie – what did she have? I will never be able to completely convey the atmosphere of the open ward . . . those rows, one piling on top of the next, with its toothless crones strapped to their beds, holding their dirty cloth dolls, caterwauling at ear-splitting din. They were all in hospital gowns with stringy hair and vacant eyes above mouths that either cried or raged. Could you do it? Would you last a week? A month? A year? It is an environment that none of us should ever face. We have to be more aware and more willing to act so the Lillie’s of the world don’t have to wait forty years for salvation.

Seeds

Within her lie the seeds of life
from the moment of first breathe
and earlier while still in the womb
all the babies she will ever carry
waiting until the time
when they will take their place
within the world.
Each wounding, each hurt, each trauma,
is inflicted not just on her
but on the next generation –
the legacy continuing
before they ever take
their first breath.