Good Everyday

You've probably figured out by now that I'm not much for "holidays," be they "holy" or not. (I do make an exception for St. Patrick's Day, because I'm one quarter Irish and because . . . beer.) Today, of course, is celebrated by many as "Good Friday," so I got to thinking about what "good" actually means. (Note to self: it is not "good" to use so many quotation marks in one's opening paragraph.)

When I was a child, I was a good little girl. Good meant eating all my supper, not picking my nose, saying my nighttime prayers, and being quiet in church. Although memory can be faulty at my age, the only time I recall being spanked was when I didn't clean my plate. There were those starving children in Africa, remember? I was given a few warnings, but when I could no longer masticate that horrid piece of meat, I was flung over my father's lap and spanked. Hard. Then sent to my room. I have another memory of not being good, but I certainly did not realize I was being bad. I'd just learned how to fold a piece of paper in half and use my scissors to cut a half circle. Open the paper up, and voila! A perfect circle! The fact that I used this newly-discovered talent on my nightgown was not so well-received by my mother. I was so proud of my "holy" nightgown, but my mother's reaction was anything but proud. I don't think I was spanked for this, but the fact that I've remembered it for over six decades says something, doesn't it? I'd been bad.

As a teenager, the rules of being good changed a bit. Sure, I no longer picked my nose, and I probably ate my dinner, but there were new expectations. I was charged with resisting peer pressure to smoke cigarettes, not an easy thing to do, but I resisted. (Except for pajama parties.) I was still expected to get all A's, although I don't recall being rewarded in any way for my effort. In my later teens, being good meant not engaging in sexual activity and obeying my curfew. I may have tweaked this a bit, but I finished high school still technically a virgin, and I always kept my curfew. Despite my being good, my father did not speak to me for most of my high school years. Go figure.

College offered some freedom from those expectations of being a good girl. Still, I rarely skipped class. Other "good" rules were not hitchhiking, not smoking pot, not getting drunk. Okay, so I wasn't so good. But I usually made Dean's List. I got my degree and a teaching job. Good, right?

As an adult, the rules of being good were fairly simple. Keep a job, pay your bills, go to church, clean your house, and be sure to vote. Check.

As I look back on all this goodness that I acquiesced to, I can see quite clearly that I simply lived up to others' expectations of goodness. I played by the rules. (Mostly.) I cannot say that I regret my conforming to societal norms, but I also know I missed out on some things, like going to the Woodstock festival or participating in civil rights and anti-war demonstrations while still under my parents' rule. I regret this.

Where'd all the good people go? asked Jack Johnson on his 2005 hit, "Good People." And now, thirteen years later, we are still struggling to find our way back to goodness. In this divisive political climate, we are watching evil creep into our democracy, our tolerance, our compassion. There is little to feel good about when watching the news, except for those kids from Florida who are making a difference. Good for them! And us!

Good should not be so difficult. Be kind, not mean. Practice tolerance and acceptance. Walk in someone else's shoes. Be courteous and compassionate. Exercise good manners. Offer compliments to others. Tip generously. Practice random acts of kindness. Smile.

And pick your nose if you want to. It's not hurting anyone.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

In 1830, English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton began his novel, Paul Clifford, with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night." You might recognize the phrase more by its reincarnation as the opening line in a Snoopy novel. The Charles Schultz Peanuts character, sitting atop his doghouse and channeling his alter-ego as the World Famous Author, begins his career with the same cheesy line. Or perhaps you reread Madeleine L'Engle's 1962 novel A Wrinkle in Time recently before viewing the new Disney movie based on the book. If you did, you might have been surprised to see that the opening line is, yep, "It was a dark and stormy night." (I am still not clear as to why she did this.)

There is an annual contest, in place since 1982, called the "Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest." It recognizes the worst examples of "dark and stormy night" writing. To enter, you simply compose a terrible opening to a novel and submit your purple prose to the contest. Good luck. The competition is tough.

So the phrase has long represented "the archetypal example of a florid, melodramatic style of fiction writing," one marked by an overuse of fanciful description. In a recent conversation with a good friend, we discussed originality in certain kinds of writing. For example, is it possible for a writer to come up with a new way to describe love? Hasn't everything already been said? How about sex? Is it possible to describe this most sensual of human experience without using words like "thrusting" and "throbbing" and, um, oh, I don't know, I just can't go there. Purple prose, indeed.

And now you know where I am going with this. Yes, I watched the 60 Minutes interview with Stormy Daniels, newly-famous porn star, and like most of you, I was disappointed with what was revealed. Or not revealed. My interest, I swear to you, has nothing to do with prurient interests. I do not want to know the salacious details. What I want to know is if it is going to take a porn star to take this administration down. Never mind collusion with Russia, money-laundering, destruction of democracy, nepotism, the possibility of nuclear war, or fitness for office. If Michael Cohen spent $130,000 in hush money on behalf of our pretend President, and that contribution was not declared, there's a legal issue that needs to be addressed. I am also well aware of the irony in this "winner" of a dealmaker being taken down by a woman whose chosen career goes against the ideals of the evangelical community, staunch supporters of his administration. Oh, the drama! Melodramatic?

I suspect that we will have more dark and stormy nights ahead. And that there will be more consumption of that drink by the same name, a cocktail of dark rum, ginger beer, and lime. Oh, and don't forget the bitters.

Who Is Tan Swiftwater?

So it's a Thursday and the first day of your 30% off Kohl's coupon and you really need a new kitchen mat. The $50 mat is on sale for $30, and you have a $10 Rewards credit in addition to the 30% off coupon.

Abracadabra! Alakazam!
Give me a discount from Kohl's . . .
Shazam!

That $50 kitchen mat is now $16.62. Sold!

And that was not the best part of my day. When I returned home and retrieved my mail, I found a good-sized book amid the advertising junk. I was expecting this package. My friend Gary just published a work of fiction based on his own story, and a compelling story it is. Force of Will by Tan Swiftwater has been released! (I could take issue with Gary's pseudonym, but I'm sure he has a good reason for it.)

I opened the package and started flipping pages. And there it was, on the page before the beginning of the story: "For Terry, who inspired me . . . " Yep, that's me. Who knew that arguing and editing could be considered inspiring? I also found myself as a minor character (with my very own fake name) in Chapters 24, 31, 38, and 39. My dog even claimed territory in the story. (Still miss that sweetheart.)

I met Gary on a fluke several years ago. We were both living in a small town and both listening to the same public radio station, WFUV, broadcast from Fordham University in NYC. The morning deejay, Claudia Marshall, posed a "Question of the Day" to which one could respond with a song. Several times, a song she played was suggested by "Gary from Sussex." Curious as to who this neighbor who knew good music was, I found him among Claudia's Facebook friends and messaged him. Turns out that our kids had attended school together. Our mutual love of music inspired our first meeting on October 3, 2012, when we attended the "Love for Levon" concert at the Izod Center. (Levon Helm, a member of The Band, had died six months earlier, and the concert was an effort to keep "The Barn," his music studio, going.) After that "date," we became "concert buddies" and took in a lot of good music, both locally and in NYC.

When I met Gary, he was newly separated from his wife. Bit by bit, he told me his story, which was complicated by false accusations, false arrests, false friendships . . . and false religion. Certainly, the stuff of novels! Gary claims that I encouraged him to write about it, although it's more than likely that I said things like, "OMG! You can't make this stuff up!" or "Your life reads like a bad novel, Gary!" Nonetheless, Gary, a more-than-competent writer, put it all down in words. I became one of his editors during the process, and I have to admit, I was compelled by his ability to turn his torrid tale into a page-turner. I am looking forward to reading it again, minus the weight of editing responsibilities.

Gary's book can be found online at Barnes & Noble and at Amazon. It's a good read.

And I'm in it!

Equinox

In less than an hour of my writing this post, the vernal equinox will occur. I have an egg ready to balance at 12:15, though I already know it will fall over. It's a myth. Even the idea that the Northern and Southern Hemispheres have an equal amount of daylight on this day is flawed. There can be as much as a 17-minute difference. Just call me an iconoclast. Sorry.

"Equinox" means "equal night." Another term for this phenomenon is "equinoctial point." Perhaps the more interesting word here, however, is "vernal." For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, March 20 is the date of the vernal equinox, also marking the first day of spring. But in the Southern Hemisphere, it's the first day of autumn. And still, the March 20 event is referred to as the vernal equinox! And September 23 will mark the autumnal equinox, whether you are celebrating the first day of autumn in the North or the first day of spring in the South! Stuff like this can make purists crazy.

While multitudes flock to Stonehenge in England on this, one of the four days of the year with "open access" and a day to celebrate all things pagan, the better place to be is Chichen Itza on the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. On this day, a shadow is cast on Kukulkan, a feathered snake god guarding a Mayan pyramid. The shadow causes the body of the snake to join the head at the base of the pyramid. Google it for a video.

If you cannot be in England or Mexico or anywhere else at all (especially if you are in the path of this month's fourth nor'easter), there are several things you can do to celebrate the equinox. (I know, I already spoiled the egg-balancing thing, didn't I?) Today is considered a day to be reborn, so go ahead and reinvent yourself. You can also cleanse your blood with a beverage made of dandelion and burdock. Yum.

Hug a bunny. Or act like a bunny. If breeding like a rabbit isn't on your agenda, you can just start your spring cleaning. Or get your freak on . . . because it's spring, and you know where a young man's fancy turns, right? Rumor has it that a woman's fancy might go there, too. And age doesn't matter.

You can create your own pagan rituals in celebration of Ostara, the goddess of dawn and fertility. (It is said that her name was "Christianized" into "Easter." Hmmm.) Put a wreath of plastic flowers around your head, tie some long and colorful ribbons to your belt, and take your shoes off. Make up a dance. Have a glass of wine (unless you really want the dandelion/burdock thing). If you don't have a harp or lute lying around, a kazoo will do.

As for me, I'm heading to a tiki bar for a cold one. And I've got somebunny to hug, too. Happy Spring!

Eid Mar

Beware the Ides of March! With breaking news every five minutes these days, who knows what dire event might make us all wince in fear before the day is over?

In ancient Rome, the "ides" were days of settling debts. In the months of March, May, July, and October, the ides fell on the 15th of the month. On the other months, the ides fell on the 13th. So imagine if the ides of January (or the seven other months) fell on a Friday the thirteenth? The culture of superstition is ubiquitous!

As you all know, "Beware the Ides of March!" is a quote from William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar and was the date of the assassination of Caesar in 44 BC, a turning point in Roman history. A year or so later, Brutus, one of Caesar's assassins, issued a coin to commemorate the event. Wanting to remind his people that he set the Romans free, the coin was marked with "EID MAR," meaning "the Ides of March."

I will confess to being a bit superstitious, despite knowing how silly it is. Lately, things have been falling down in my condo for reasons which I cannot discern. First, it was a decorative faux shutter in my dining room. ("Shutter down!" I keep thinking.) Then it was a brass sign on the guest room door which reads "Blue Heron Room." Those of you who know me well know the importance of the Great Blue Heron to me, and so the fall of the sign appears to be, literally, a SIGN! Of what, I worry. (And perhaps the current occupant of my guest room is worried, too?) And mysteriously, my closet light decided not to work for three days despite a recently new bulb, and then, just as mysteriously, it began working again with no help or adjustments from me. At least I can see the light if not the meaning.

My grandmother always told me that bad things happen in threes, and I have found that to be true many times in my life. (What an easy superstition to manipulate! Let's see, my dog died and then my credit card got hacked and then, um, let me think, oh yeah, I spilled some milk. Three bad things; I'm done now.)

Although there have been three unexplainable things happen in my home, I will not rest easy until this day is over and the world is still in one piece.

I just wish it was in one peace. Et tu?

Screamin' Reels

It's a beer. Specifically, it's a tropical, hoppy IPA with an earthy, tangerine taste. And a 7% alcohol volume.

With St. Patrick's Day only four days away, I thought it would be appropriate to pen a blogpost that celebrates beer. Having given up meat over a decade ago, I no longer indulge in corned beef, but beer is meatless, so let the celebration begin! Seriously, St. Patrick's Day is really the only holiday I like. There are no gifts to give, very little decorating, no endless holiday music in public places, and no people being depressed because they are alone on the day. If you don't care to be Irish for a day, just go about your business, and no one will even notice. If you do care to be Irish, drink up!

I am a descendant of the Noonans of County Cork and the O'Briens of County Clare. I visited Ireland a few years ago and inquired about these families when I was in the appropriate counties. Cornelius O'Brien was a politician in County Clare and is memorialized in the O'Brien Monument, a Doric column which has been considered by many as a phallic symbol, appropriate to O'Brien's reputation as a ladies' man. The monument was possibly paid for by compulsory subscriptions of his tenants, although there seems to be no definitive proof of that allegation. Yep, good old Uncle Cornelius, my ancestor.

I also drank a lot of Guinness in Ireland, and yes, I believe it is true: it is so much better than the Guinness on tap here in the States.

I have company coming, so I stopped in today at Saltwater Brewery, just up the road from me. On Tuesdays, there's a 25% discount on growlers, meaning that I purchased 64 ounces of draft beer for $12. My choice, as always, was Screamin' Reels, because I love a good IPA. But Screamin' Reels has my attention for another reason.

If you purchase a 6-pack of Screamin' Reels, you will notice something different about the set of six rings that keeps the cans in place. A couple of years ago, Saltwater Brewery was the first to sell their 6-packs in Eco Six Pack Rings (E6PR), made from by-product waste (barley and wheat) and other compostable materials. I'm sure you are aware of the danger in disposing of those plastic 6-pack rings without cutting the rings apart. Social media has provided us with many pictures of marine creatures strangled by getting caught in the rings. The E6PR on Screamin' Reels is edible for fish and turtles and completely biodegradable. I am happy to pay a couple of bucks more for these 6-packs . . . or just continue to fill up my growler on Tuesdays.

My growler is resting in my refrigerator, waiting for the time of celebration. As St. Patrick's Day is on a Saturday this year, I hope you can take some time to celebrate, even if you can't claim Cornelius as an ancestor. On St. Patty's Day, everyone is Irish! Slainte!

A Wrinkle in Time

There's a chill down here in south Florida, and last night, my feet were cold. I spent hours today cutting six inches off the top of my blanket and sewing them onto the bottom of the blanket. I am hoping for warmer feet tonight.

No, none of that is true. I stole that from a popular meme that credits the Native Americans with making fun of "the white man" for enacting Daylight Savings Time. You must be aware that you will "lose" an hour of sleep tonight when you wake up at 2:00 a.m. to move your clocks ahead. Actually, you will probably lose more than an hour because, if you're like me, you will not be able to fall back to sleep after being so rudely awakened by your iPhone . . . which will change its time without any help from you. And now I'm wondering how many people actually change their clocks at 2:00 a.m. instead of enjoying a normal morning until they realize it's later than they thought? And how many cars remain on standard time because their owners have no patience to figure out how to change the damn clock on the dashboard?

Daylight Savings Time is 100 years old this year! In 1918, the first year of the time change, golf ball sales increased by 20%! Although DST was supposed to help to reduce energy consumption, it turns out that people were using more gas to drive to the outdoor venues where they could enjoy the longer days, so that savings was questionable.

I am old enough to remember the gas shortage of 1974. In fact, I had my interview for a teaching job in the principal's car in line for gas. It was an hour and a half interview; he had no choice but to hire me! (VTHS peeps: you can thank the gas shortage for our current friendship!) What I do not recall was that on January 8, 1974, President Richard Nixon forced the entire nation into year-round Daylight Savings Time to stave off the energy crisis and lessen the impact of the gas shortage. But within a month of that ruling, eight children died in traffic accidents, six of them attributed to children going to school in the dark.

Nonetheless, the State of Florida has recently passed the "Sunshine Protection Act" to extend DST to year-round. Legislators claim that it will "put more sunshine in our lives." Sounds magical, doesn't it? The bill still has to be approved by the federal government, but if passed, Florida will be eternally at odds with Arizona, a state which refuses to recognize DST. This is really only a problem when you embark upon a Southeast Road Trip and have to calculate your drive times and hotel arrivals in neighboring states. Been there, done that. I guess, in essence, we agree to disagree.

Seventy countries around the world participate in DST. That means that 125 countries do not (if current figures are correct). Although there are many passionate arguments for and against the measure, I have to admit that I kind of like it. Tomorrow night, I will sit on my lanai well into the evening and enjoy the "extra" daylight. And the next morning, I will sleep later than usual, something that retired people can do any damn time they please. 

In doing my research for this post, I came upon John Oliver's "How Is This Still a Thing?" about DST. Google it if you want his always-funny perspective. And I should note that I also just finished reading Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, just in time for the movie release.

Daylight Savings Time. A wrinkle in time, indeed.

A Different Monarchy

I wanted my father's attention. I wanted him to love me. I was grateful for every crumb he tossed my way. Although we'd made our peace before he died forty-five years ago, I still have a hard time coming up with good memories of the brief time that we occupied the same home. But the ones that stand out for me took place outside of that house. I remember a walk in the woods where we came upon a fox den, a large slab of stone that sheltered whatever furry family wanted to scurry underneath it. I was fascinated and frightened at the same time and revisited the site whenever I found myself in the same woods. I would not have known it was a home for foxes if my father hadn't pointed it out.

And, in a somewhat foggier memory, I am about five years old, outside with my father. A flutter of black and orange film lights on a plant. I know it's a butterfly. But my father names it. Monarch. Up until this point, I think I lived in a world of common nouns: plant, dog, cat, car, bike, snake, butterfly. I had yet to learn milkweed, English Setter, Siamese, Buick, Royce Union, copperhead . . .

Monarch. I loved the word. I loved knowing that what was once a common butterfly now had a name. Monarch. I felt smart knowing this, and I had my father to thank. He may not have given me a goodnight kiss, but he gave me a word that I could cherish. And I wanted more words. I began to collect them, starting out with names for birds (goldfinch, bluejay, cardinal, nuthatch, wren) and building my vocabulary until I could up my game with those fifty-cent words that made me feel smart (serendipity, exacerbate, isinglass, clandestine, iconoclast). I can still remember from whom I got those words.

Monarch. For a few years now, we've been aware of the plight of the monarch butterfly. Because of pollution, climate change, and the proliferation of weed-killing chemicals, the monarch butterfly population has dwindled. A study by the US Geological Survey in 2016 concluded that there's up to a 57% risk that the eastern monarch migration could collapse within the next twenty years. One of the biggest offenders is Monsanto's Roundup, which is killing milkweed, the only plant the monarch butterfly's larvae will eat. (If you are still using Roundup, please stop.)

Of course, we all know that monarch butterflies winter in Mexico and then fly north to the United States and Canada in the spring. What I did not know is that no single butterfly completes the entire journey; it takes a couple of generations to make the trip, as monarchs only live about 2 - 5 weeks. The final generation, which is able to reach its destination, is also able to make the return trip to Mexico, as it can live up to nine months! I find this amazing!

Monarch populations are measured by the number of acres of trees occupied by the butterflies in Mexico. That number has dropped again this year, from 7.19 acres to 6.12 acres. In fact, the number of monarchs that winter in Mexico has declined more than 80% over the past twenty years. If this is of interest to you, treat yourself to Barbara Kingsolver's 2012 novel, Flight Behavior, in which the monarchs go off-course and roost in Appalachia. Yes, it's fiction . . . but at the rate we're going, it could happen.

The monarch butterfly got its name from William V, Prince of Orange, who later became King of England. You know I can't resist pointing out that we have our own Prince of Orange, a Monarch-wannabe who wants to build a wall that could make it more difficult for the butterflies to complete their migration. I'll stop here and instead, say this:

Celebrate International Women's Day! (And don't buy Roundup.)

Apple Turnovers

While I am located far from the current nor'easter, I have survived enough of them to know what my northern friends are dealing with today. My summer home could get up to two feet of snow, and there's a good chance that more power lines will go down. While most of my friends are posting weather maps and outage charts on social media, I noticed that more than a few are posting pictures and recipes of comfort food! From potato-corn chowder to apple turnovers, there is a passion to get some cooking and baking done before the power goes out.

So I was thinking about apple turnovers. And apple pies. And apple everything: pandowdies, buckles, slumps, crisps, and grunts. Give a baker some apples, pastry dough, sugar, and spice, and soon you will have food as tempting as Eve's apple. But unlike Eve's fall from grace, the only consequence one will have to face post-winter is the removal of a few extra pounds, courtesy of the sugar and starch consumed. When spring arrives, there will be a need to turn over a new leaf.

(I heard that groan.)

And while we're on the subject of turnovers, let's talk about the latest ones. (You knew this is where I was headed, didn't you?) Gary Cohn's departure as Chief Economic Adviser in the current administration revived the conversation about chaos in our White House. With his resignation, a full 43% of top level positions have seen turnover. "That is not normal," said NPR, stating the obvious. If you want additional numbers, google Rachel Maddow's "Departure Board" for the latest exits. I found it too overwhelming to count. Like counting calories, you know? The more you count, the worse the consequences and the more depressed you get.

I don't really want to upset the apple cart by inserting politics into a post about yummy pastries. But surely, you have considered that one bad apple can spoil the whole barrel? The decomposition of our government, the deterioration of ethics and morals, and the decay of democracy started somewhere, didn't it? I know who the one bad apple is, despite the fact that he is often referred to as an orange.

Simpatico with my homies, I am considering doing some cooking or baking. Although I have no apples on hand, I have some purple cauliflower, Florida corn, eggplant and portobellos in my larder. Surely, I can make something good out of my produce? Might not be a turnover, but comforting nonetheless.

Stay safe and warm and well-fed, my northern friends. Spring will be here soon, right? You will be discovering crocus and daffodils under the melting snow before you know it. And if you are fortunate enough to have an apple tree in your yard, there is a promise of blossoms to come.

How do you like them apples?

Pin Oak Down

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

I was a thousand miles away when Riley, the "bomb cyclone" (or, more scientifically, "explosive cyclogenesis"), ravaged the Northeast two days ago. I did not hear the pin oak in my front yard fall to the earth. Did it make a sound?

The point of a Zen koan, or riddle, is not to answer the question, but to contemplate the contradiction it presents. In doing so, the mind becomes empty of logic and nears a sense of universal mindedness. I would welcome an emptiness of my mind, as right now, it is full of sadness and hopeless sorrow. I loved that tree.

Or did I? I liked the tree. I suppose I took it for granted, assuming it would always be there. When deciding which trees to trim or take down last fall, I never once considered removing the pin oak from my landscape. At the base of my property are two very old and very large white oak trees, but the pin oak differs in that its upper branches point up, its middle branches point out, and its lower branches point down, giving it a luxurious fullness. For over thirty years, even after my children were grown, I have watched that tree grow taller. I have trimmed the low-hanging branches to prevent nasty encounters during lawn-mowing activities. Although I have cursed the late autumn barrage of oak leaves that swirl and eddy at the side of my house, I have welcomed the nourishment they provided as mulch for my gardens. And I have spent countless evenings alone on my front porch, contemplating the beauty of that tree in the glow of sunset. Okay, so maybe I did love the tree.

The mighty oak, a symbol of strength, stability, and nobility, has been considered sacred by just about  every culture that has encountered the tree. It has often been associated with the gods of thunder and lightening, such as Zeus and Thor. I guess my tree met its match when it encountered Riley, the God of Bombogenesis. Perhaps I should be grateful to have missed watching my noble tree try to resist the forces of nature, only to succumb in a crash of thunderous surrender. But I didn't hear a thing.

When I return north this spring, all signs of my tree will be gone, its body sawed and chopped into firewood for next winter and its branches mulched into organic nourishment for the soil. My front porch view of the Kittatinny Range will be improved, and there will be a third fewer leaves to fight with next fall. I wonder . . . for how long will I gaze out at the place where the tree once stood and mourn its absence? When will this new landscape become the only one I know?

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
~ Maya Angelou

The sound that I did not hear will resonate for a very long time.

Photo credit: Sheila Voelker Jacobus

The Church of Not Being Horrible

I knew nothing about John Pavlovitz when I came upon his essay, "The Church of Not Being Horrible." Written almost a year ago, the post is part of his blog, Stuff That Needs to Be Said. In the church that he invented, there is a brief mission statement: "Don't be horrible to people." As a member of the church, you are required to ask and answer a central question, as often as necessary: "Am I being horrible right now?"

Pavlovitz was, at one time, a pastor in one of those mega-churches . . . until he got fired. "You don't fit here," he was told. Since then, Pavlovitz has gone on to be a blogger, a book author, a twitter god, and an inspiration to many. That's all I know about him, but it's necessary that I credit him with the invention of this church.

I am a recovering Catholic. I am not stating that snidely. While I might be able to credit the Church with some part of my sense of right and wrong, I can also assert that they did so through the tools of guilt, intimidation, and fear. There is still a little girl in me begging her father to please go to church on Sunday, lest he perish in the fires of hell. No kid wants to be plagued by nightmares of a parent burning up in an endless field of fire. I do not wish to criticize anyone for whom the Church (Catholic or otherwise) is an important component of his/her life. I'm just saying it did not work for me. My choice was to find my own path, stumbling along, encountering forks, maybe backtracking here and there, never really knowing what's at the end of the path, but forging ahead with hope anyway. I do not expect to find "the answer" in this lifetime, but I will search for it regardless.

So The Church of Not Being Horrible seems like a good place to stop along the way. Am I horrible? I don't think so. Have I done horrible things in my life? Of course. Can I compensate for those things with some random acts of kindness? I sure hope so.

There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground. (My most-often quoted Rumi wisdom.) There are many paths. And although we can each travel a different one, I think we should all worship at The Church of Not Being Horrible. There are no bibles, no candles, no choirs, no pews, no incense, no prayers, no confessions, no penance, no communions, no sacraments, no blessings, no clergy, no nuns, no crucifixes, no saints, no relics, no sacristies, no altars, no holy water, and no fires of hell.

Only kindness matters.

Chihuly, Seattle Center, July 2017