Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Sunday, March 17, 2013
St. Patrick was a Romano-British lad that converted to the Christianity of his Roman dad, and purportedly "drove the snakes" out of Ireland. Of course, the "snakes" (and "toads") were a symbol for the Pagans and Druids in Ireland. There wasn't much mention of him until the 17th century when he and his story were given a special holiday by the church. He was never canonized; so in all actuality, he's just Patrick (sans the St.). There really are no bold, broad facts that prove the myth of the expulsion of the Druids and Pagans. In fact, as in most conversion history, it is far more likely that the Druids and Pagans were not driven out, but in fact, were slowly absorbed into a faith that adopted their rites and rituals in order to convert them.
As a Pagan, I do not feel the need to spit upon the holiday. American Irish can attest to the history in this country of the treatment of the Irish. During the 19th century, when large numbers of Irish were emigrating to the United States, most of them were treated poorly, due, in large part, to the great multitude of Irish Catholics (although my personal Irish ancestors were not Catholic). They were treated as servants and looked upon as second-rate humans. "No Irish Need Apply" became a slogan on the East coast. Therefore, in honor of my Irish-American immigrant ancestors, I celebrate this day. I will wear green, not because the shamrock is green and symbolizes the holy trinity, but because Ireland is green. I will remember Eliza Adams who came to America with her bastard son, William, to escape both the famine and the stigma of being an unwed mother. I will celebrate John Morrow, who not only came to America to be treated poorly, but fought at Gettysburg and survived. I will celebrate William and Isabella McElroy who brought all thirteen of their children to America to escape poverty in Ireland.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
And here, from August 27, 2010--the moment of healing:
I wander out of the desert,
Shielding my eyes to see the clouds on the horizon.
Stumbling, I go toward them
Like one mad from the ravages of heat
And grating sand--
Parched and cracked and red.
How long I had wandered--
and how far
Seeking an oasis of oneness with me--
Yet never finding it.
There is no oasis here.
But there, off in the distance
There are mountains
Filled with dense, heavy, cleansing
Every cell in my body turns toward them
And moves onward.
I feel the first drop
Ever etched in my memory.
It's cool plop on my face
Sends me stumbling backward--
Another comes-then another--
Soon, there is a waterfall from the heavens.
I stand, face upturned
Spinning, jumping, laughing
Revelling in each and every atom of life.
Forgetting about the scorching heat.
Rivers of soft moisture run down my face
Glance off my eyelids
Pour off my chin.
I am liquid.
I am freed.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Shortly before this occurred, the two of them had asked a classmate if they could borrow his phone to call another friend, since they were out of minutes on their own phones. The kid they were going to call is a rather religious boy who does not do drugs or alcohol. The kid who's phone they were borrowing was immediately reprimanded by his Helicopter Mom, who was standing by, and the phone was never borrowed. About an hour later, the kids were approached by the officers.
I spoke to the "senior officer" here in Moscow, a woman who seriously needs a "date", who very rudely informed me that Jess had been seen going into the bathroom with an empty soda bottle and toting a duffle bag; but when he came out, his bottle was full. I was able to talk to another officer, who was on the scene who told me that the report was made by a security officer who allegedly witnessed my son doing this. However, my son tells me that he never carried a duffle bag anywhere on the grounds; and his bottle was neither empty nor refilled during this time. He came home with half of his Dr. Pepper still in the bottle. Jess was approached by the officers while sitting in the stands where a ten year old boy, completely unknown to my son, had placed his backpack on top of my son's coat. This was searched for drugs and alcohol. Both my son's story and that of the officer are cohesive; so I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my son had no duffle on him. The officers found no sign of drugs or alcohol on my son or his girlfriend.
The kid who's phone the two tried to use told the kids that his mother had called the security officer. I am assuming that this is the reason that the "story" came about that Jess had a duffle and an empty bottle. They had to have a reason to search him; and since they had no reason, one had to be invented.
I am incensed that the witch hunt was on with my kids. These two are formerly troubled kids who have made large strides in turning their lives around. The fact that a story had to be made up in order to "make sure" these kids were not using drugs on the grounds of the Kibbie Dome makes me wonder if they are not, in fact, being watched. Although I was told that this was not personal; that it was random; I do not believe this. I believe my kids were, indeed targeted; both by the paranoid and malicious, insane mother of this classmate of theirs; and by the Moscow Police Department.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
I realize that I should learn to be happy by myself, which I am, for the most part. However, rejection in any form makes me yearn all the more for a close companion. I’m pretty sure this is a dysfunction; but I’m trying not to admit it. I still believe that somewhere, out there, is a soul mate; although I have also considered the idea that mine didn’t incarnate this time around. Lucky me. So, in the spirit of this darling, little pity party I’m having, I am going to administer my own form of liquid oblivion, and try to forget that I dared to step out into the dating scene again.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
As I focus on the members of my family who came before me and have long been gone from this world, I am made more aware of who I am as a person; not the person I have become as a result of my society, but the person I was fated to be at birth: the result of generations. I realize that I am my own unique person, yet at the same time, I am a conglomeration of many people that have been contained in a common soul.
Who am I? I am the young man who traveled overland to California to seek riches in the creek beds of Sutter’s Mill; husband of the young woman who, at sixteen, taught school amidst a lawless, wild community. I am the young Irishwoman who traveled to America with her bastard son to escape the stigma of being an unwed mother in the middle 1800s. I am the widowed Civil War veteran that died of wounds sustained in battle leaving behind four orphaned children; and I am one of those orphaned children who married well, yet suffered the heartbreak of the loss of several children. I am the passenger of the mayflower, a daughter of the American Revolution and a descendant of the Civil War. My direct ancestors carried the flag for Richard the Lionheart, ruled England, and died the Viking’s death.
Although my tree branches out in several directions through my parents and my parents’ parents, I am made aware that I am the root of my own tree, and my root sends out its own branches through my children, who are then roots of their own unique trees. When I contemplate my uniqueness in the history of my family, I see that we are all truly distinctive as humans. Each of us has a place in this forest of life and who we are depends on the ones that walked the path before us.