UGH–first of all, I do NOT like memes of any kind.

This is the Stuart Smalley Meme, whoever he is. If you want to play, name ten things you like about yourself. Leave me a comment and tell me you did it.

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1)I like my smile.

2)I like my feet. They are strong, relatively attractive, and carry me where I want to go.

3)I like my hands. They are good for loving and touching.

4)I like my eyes: they help me see and appreciate, pretty scenery, art and dance. They help me read. I like to read. I’m glad I do.

5)I like my tongue, it really enjoys tasting food.

6)I like my ears–they love good music and loving words.

7)I like my nose–it likes the smell of fresh bread.

8)I like my body–I like to hold my loved ones close.

9)I like my mind–it helps me think, work things out, and learn.

10)I like my soul or dream body–it likes to soar.

I tag YOU if you’re reading this.

It’s not a very well-kept secret, but in case you haven’t yet noticed, I am emotionally very sensitive. I laugh easily, cry easily, anger easily. But when I am sobbing over asparagus in Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, even the most sympathetic reader probably turns away in disgust.

There are good reasons to sob over asparagus. OK, this will sound weird, but those reasons in part relate to Mary’s goldfish story. It all has to do with her and my deep beliefs in being honorable and doing the right thing. Or my desire to believe that, perhaps. I want to do the right thing, but doing the right thing is always hard; it’s never easy. If it was easy, we’d all do it, and maybe we’d all be in heaven. Here on earth, being good is hard work. Maybe impossible.

I have personal reasons to sob over asparagus. I used to grow them. I had a huge garden. I have NO garden now. That’s partly because I now live in a big city with a small lot. My whole lot is smaller than my garden used to be. But it’s more than that. I don’t have the energy or time I used to have—or the will, perhaps. I have to divide my time; I have to make choices. Hard choices.

SO OK, if for now at least, I am not going to grow asparagus, then where will I get it? At the grocery store, or at the farmer’s market? Well, at the Farmer’s market would be the correct choice, if that were reasonably possible. But here, the farmer’s market is far away and the farmers even farther away. And the farmer’s market here has food from everywhere. It’s not a real farmer’s market with locally grown produce; it’s just people who buy up the same stuff the grocery store has and resells it. All very fake. There may be a few real farmers, but not many.

The problem as Barbara Kingsolver puts it, is “oily food.” We’re paying for transportation; the transportation uses nonrenewable resources. And quality is lost in the process. I want to support local farmers, cut down on the oil my food, and eat fresher healthier food. I’ve always wanted that, even before Barbara Kingsolver. That’s a cause for tears when it’s so difficult to achieve. I have a lot more to say about this, but not a lot of time. I hope to return to the topic later.

Farm with clouds

Wordless Wednesday (click thumbnail to view larger):

Underwater Ripple 2

Picnic table Postscript (Click thumbnail to view larger):

Picnic Table Series Balduck Grass

Will spring ever come?

I haven’t had time to write about the things I’d like to write about. This is a piece I did earlier and just hand colored it. (click image to see larger). I did not spend the kind of time I need to spend it really do a good job.

I hope when things settle down to write more interesting things.

The Frosted Window

I’ve noticed that a great number of my bloggy friends and others are experiencing deaths that affects them deeply. Nicole, jo(e), Helena, Kate, Mary, Tammy, Morgan and others have all recently blogged about a death that affected them. I have just returned from my Mom’s memorial service and am still in a state of grief and confusion.

Not everything that happened there was bad, of course, there were delightful moments mixed with the tears and interesting discoveries.

For example, at one point my father was making $100 a week–for a long time. I threw away LOTS of pay stubs that said that. I wish I’d saved one. I don’t remember the dates.

My parents were very frugal. They did not spend or waste much money. And my father invested carefully in the stock market with his meager earnings.

Lo and behold, I found a bank statement that said they had over a million dollars. This was in a time when being a millionaire meant more than it does now. Much of that money disappeared during the illnesses that killed both of them and in the stock crash of a few years back. But I, for one, was surprised to learn they had accumulated that much wealth at one point.

They did not live like millionaires. They lived in a tiny old house and wore shabby clothes purchased at garage sales. During the short time between when my father retired and got ill, they did travel quite extensively in Europe, Asia and South America. This traveling was cut short not only by his illness, but also by increasing terrorism. I can think of little else that indicated that they had accumulated anything that might be called wealth.

Oh, and don’t be thinking I have any wealth by default, as I have been unemployed for a number of years. Sorry.

Here is a little sketch I made of my parents. It’s not great, but it’s a little like them in the 1940s (click to see larger):

My parents sketch

In front of a church on Moross in Detroit is a sign that says, “Worshipping the right God at the right place with the right people.” It reminds me of that song, “My dog’s bigger than your dog,” Only in this case, it’s “My God’s better than your God, my church is better—and I’m better.”

In other words, you suck. If you’re not a member of this church, you suck. And your God sucks, too. It’s the ultimate bigotry. I’m curious. Who are the right people who attend that church? And who are the wrong ones who do not?

If there is a God, she’s probably black, an old joke goes. Multicolored, anyway, like Joseph’s coat. Familiar but unknowable. She loves everyone. She’s not exclusive. She loves the sparrows and each hair on your head. She loves the Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists and everyone.

I bet the Unitarians don’t have a sign like that outside their church. I’m not a Unitarian, but I like the idea of uniting people of all faiths, not excluding them. Any place is the right place, anyone is the right person. If they are human, they are loved. Or should be. The one vast God would love them all, without exception. If there were a God.

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I guess the people who think that “their personal God” is the one and only right God are pretty rabid about it, so I hope I don’t offend you. My God loves you even if your God doesn’t love me. See , I can be holier than thou, too!

I tried to get on here to post this from my laptop because we were out and about tonight, but WordPress said that my username was wrong. Not my password, my username. It wasn’t, but I couldn’t.

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I used to dream a lot about trains and trainyards, much more than any experience in my real waking life would suggest. The dreams were evocative and seemed important. But I could never make any sense of them, in spite of the repeating nature of the dreams and the similar scenes.

I haven’t had one of these dreams in a long time. Nor have I dreampt of flying lately. I used to love those flying dreams!

There’s a picture that goes with this post, and it uploaded fine, but now it won’t go into the editor. I’ve tried several times and I’ll have to give up for now. It shows the code where it is supposed to show the visual. I just tried again after logging off and back on, no dice. Maybe another time it will let me add it. Sigh!

Train from Escarpment

I thought I’d include a self-portrait sketch of myself, a very hasty sketch, I might add, in pen, marker and crayons. I’m much older than I look here, and making likenesses is NOT my forte. This is my female human form. Click it to see it larger. And remember, I’m older and a little different than this due to my lack of skill as an artist. Maybe someday. But probably not, as I probably won’t live long enough to learn to make realistic likenesses–WAHN! 😦

Self Portrait Sketch

Today I was able to get onto WordPress without entering a new password 5 times. This was a huge improvement. I hope that lasts. AS I get used to this, it does get a little easier, as I expected it would. I have a low tolerance for frustration in part due to my health issues.

After I did this post, I decided to add this to the page about me, so that later, when this disappears into bloggy oblivion, the silly sketch will still be available to allow you to have a vague notion of what I almost looked like (years ago), LOL! 😀 (If you care).