tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-218863662024-03-06T00:49:35.263-06:00Big Bluestem BlogBig Bluestem is a hardy, perennial, warm-season grass. I'm hardy, perennial and I like to write...but I'm not a grass. Flash Fiction and Theology make up the blend here...it's kind of like a mixed-grass prairie.D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-28784728542462779102016-02-15T18:29:00.000-06:002016-02-15T18:29:15.686-06:00Transformation Most Definitely Real<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #f8ffee; font-family: Copse; font-size: 22px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;">
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I hope you'll all visit my new blog at the following link! It's really great as it features the writing of Daniel D. Maurer, award-winning author of <a href="http://transformation-is-real.com/sobriety-a-graphic-novel/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Sobriety: A Graphic Novel </a>and <a href="http://transformation-is-real.com/faraway/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Faraway: A Suburban Boy's Story as a Victim of Sex Trafficking</a>. Daniel is also a recovery speaker sharing that everyone can change and that recovery (and transformation, as well as transformative stories) is very real. <a href="http://transformation-is-real.com/blog" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Transformation-Is-Real</a>. If the new blog is anything, it's a testament that real stories of transformation do exist and that change is possible for anyone.</div>
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PEACE! - DDM<br /><br /><span style="color: #f8ffee;">Be well!!</span></div>
D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-20990310286231416252014-11-16T17:30:00.002-06:002015-10-03T21:22:54.773-05:00InvitationIt was fun keeping this blog while I still wrote things for the sake of simply writing. However, I enjoy actually making money while I write now. This means that I'm beginning to focus my energy on my new author website and blog. <a href="http://transformation-is-real.com/" target="_blank">Transformation is Real </a>is about transformational stories and the site has several samples of my freelance writing, as well as sample pages of my new books. I'd love it if you'd come visit the website and contribute. Peace!! Daniel D. Maurer, "Dan the Story Man."<br />
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UPDATE: And the great thing is that I've been at this for a year straight and I'm getting even more hits than ever! Thanks!!D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-17415759310498154802013-03-24T15:08:00.002-05:002015-10-03T21:23:34.498-05:00The Beachcomber<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Although I write frequently and often, I have used my blog as a medium to distribute my writings far less often than I would like. This is one piece that I found enjoyable to write. I would like to share it with my readers, however few you may be...</div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i>The Beachcomber</i></b> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> D.D. Maurer, March 2013<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Shelling is an interesting pastime. Walking on the sandy
shore, the undulating waves to the one side of your body facing the Gulf of
Mexico offer a steady cadence to pace yourself. The wet, packed sand creeps up,
between your toes, persevering to find a crevasse of skin; it will be there, bugging
you tonight, when you try to fall asleep.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But you stay at it. The flow is here – you’re in the groove.
Head down, your eyes scan the ground. </div>
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The <i>beachcomber</i> –
what a strange title for a pastime (or, an occupation, even). </div>
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<br /></div>
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It is a skill even a child can master – the computational
power of your brain, aided with the evolutionary advantage of sharp acuity and
the uncanny differentiation of colors, your eyes have the ability to “comb”
over the scalp of the beach. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Seeking to pick out these remnants of death, discarded
bodies – deep sea coffins, really – transformed into beauty. <i>Shells</i>. How truly inappropriate a name,
you think. For they hold so much in them. </div>
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Scanning, you look purposeful and without rest…</div>
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No. </div>
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No. </div>
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No. </div>
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Hmm, look at that one... No.</div>
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Yes. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho9gf_10Wb-CC_991LpJOooxuXkgNohlNYnLBTdLSCnEn8VZF5IejBpaEtwnFclfY8i4HF9lCmX1dlz3OEFBrqXfhtLNS-0KbUoewjcampKeIiewNjYfi5nQ71wvDuHwTglcY/s1600/Nautilus-pompilius-shell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho9gf_10Wb-CC_991LpJOooxuXkgNohlNYnLBTdLSCnEn8VZF5IejBpaEtwnFclfY8i4HF9lCmX1dlz3OEFBrqXfhtLNS-0KbUoewjcampKeIiewNjYfi5nQ71wvDuHwTglcY/s320/Nautilus-pompilius-shell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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You reach down just as the salty wave crashes against the
shore, trying in a futile attempt to seize the treasure back to the bosom of
the sea. You’re too fast. You pull the little tawny speckled trinket to you.</div>
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Strange. How is it that a piece of calcium carbonate can
have such symmetry, such mathematical perfection? Gastropods, scaphopods,
polyplacophorans (or chitons), cephalopods – all simple, invertebrate, lowly.
Beauty has no prejudice, however. The shed casing in your hand is perfect, incorruptible.</div>
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And then… </div>
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The setting in which you find yourself becomes centered in
nature’s jewelry, still wet in the palm of your hand. It is a microcosm of all
that surrounds you – the foaming water crashing on the shore, the sea oats
swaying in the breeze, distant clouds in the big sky. Even the others seem to
be a part of the whole: the old woman with the white sun hat bends to pick a
treasure of her own; kids jump and laugh, beating their little bodies against
the waves; lovers hold hands, their faces to the sky, reclining on plastic
chairs; a man shifts his weight throwing line and hook and sinker to catch a wiggly
treasure of his own.</div>
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It’s all here in the “shell”:</div>
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Untold millions of children take their own shells home, to
some midwestern hamlet vastly distant from the ocean. In excitement they put
them to their ears. “I can hear still hear it, Mom!”</div>
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Perhaps equally as distant in the span of time, some
seashells historically have been used as <i>Monetaria
moneta, </i>the “money cowry”, currency to trade innumerable goods throughout
the broad Pacific.</div>
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They are tools…</div>
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African kings used them as bowls; <i>Melo melo</i> shells bailed water out of canoes in Australia; ancient
scribes wrote on papyrus late into the night, their letters only illuminated
and made legible at all by oil-lamp shells. </div>
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They even hold prominence in religion…</div>
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In Christianity, the scallop shell is the symbol of Saint
James the Great, the only apostle whose martyrdom is recorded in the New Testament.
In Hinduism, the left-spiraled shells of the sacred <i>shankha</i> are considered to be property of the god Vishnu. They play
an equally important role in Buddhism. In the more esoteric religion of
Santeria, shells are themselves considered rich vessels of divination.</div>
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<br /></div>
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They are – and have been – tools, musical horns, war
trophies, architectural adornment, jewelry and personal keepsakes, sacred
items, and painted on flags of state. Farmers even grind them up to raise the
pH of soil and increase crop yields.</div>
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And now… </div>
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You stand on the seashore. Your cast your gaze to the
infinite horizon where ocean meets sky. Warm, humid, salty air hits your face
as the wind picks up. The shell you hold as yours has a name, albeit an
artificial human construction: <i>Nautilus
pompilius</i>. The “lower” life form, to inhabit its curly, striped home only
lived there for two, perhaps three, years.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yet, unknown currents brought this piece of art to you. It
is precious, no doubt.</div>
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The statistical probability of bringing the shell ashore
in one piece is staggeringly unlikely. But here it is, in your hand.</div>
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It is times like these which remind us, that however
impermanent the world may seem, it is still worth living, however long or short
it may seem. In the words of the great American writer and aviator Anne Morrow
Lindbergh, author of the seminal work <i>Gift
from the Sea: </i>“One cannot collect all beautiful shells on the beach. One
can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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No doubt, friends: life is a beach. <a href="http://transformation-is-real.com/">And Transformation-Is-Real! </a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-41095030011060971722012-09-06T22:32:00.000-05:002012-09-06T22:32:19.841-05:00Flash Fiction #16: The Abyss<i>I'm back! After a month long hiatus of not writing on the blog and taking care of our busy boys, I'm bringing my creative juices to the fold again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I have a feeling that most people will hate this. It was a work I've spent thinking about publishing online for some time. Theologically, I don't like its conclusions. The story certainly is depressing enough. But something haunts me about Reanna. We don't know her well, she's fictional after all. All the same her character is our character in the stage of life. Strangely, I find that comforting. I promise that next week's fiction will be much less macabre. Tell me your thoughts. I love to hear from you.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* * * * * * * * * * * *</i></div>
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She hadn't realized that she had died.<br />
<br />
That's the thing: it went so <i>quickly</i>.<br />
<br />
Reanna was only 22 years old. She remembered the car ride. Was she driving? No. It was Carly. Carly was driving. And her sister, Max, was with them. They just had gotten done skiing at Wild Mountain. They were headed back home. She remember that she was high. Max scored some pot off some guys at the hill. She hadn't had that much.<br />
<br />
But Carly did. She had at least a couple of bowls. And Carly was drunk. Yeah. Carly brought a flask and was sipping on it the whole time. It probably wasn't a very good idea that Carly decided to drive. Nobody wanted to say anything, though. Least of all Max or Reanna. They were the best of friends. And if they said something to Carly, well, she might not be friends with them anymore. It will be alright. Right?<br />
<br />
It wasn't alright. Reanna was dead.<br />
<br />
Was Max dead, too? No. No. No! Her little sister, Max! She can't be dead. Where is she? I want to know.<br />
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<br />
<br />
But there's only darkness.<br />
<br />
Hello?<br />
<br />
Is anyone there?<br />
<br />
Reanna can't see anything. Actually, she can't hear anything either. Nor can she feel, taste, or smell. In fact, she can't even think. She's gone. Dead. Forever passed.<br />
<br />
The only "thoughts" she perceives are actually echos of what once was. Hopes vanquished. The entirety of her existence evaporated like early morning dew in the August heat.<br />
<br />
Echoes.<br />
<br />
Echoes continue.<br />
<br />
Reanna knows she's gone. Because to know is to make a conclusion. And to make a conclusion is to have rational thoughts (or any thoughts at all - even irrational). But she has no thoughts. She has no brain. She is in the black hole. She has gone to the place where she feared as a little girl. You know, the place all of us fear. Not hell. No, hell is far too real, pain is an unbearable existence, but it is still existence. The place we truly fear is the Abyss. The blackness of non-existence beyond.<br />
<br />
The strange thing about it for Reanna is that it is not frightening for her. Neither is it comforting. It is nothing. It is that from whence she came; from No-Thing. Reanna, at one time, did not exist. Now, after the Dodge Avenger which Carly borrowed from her father slammed head-on to the semi in the icy lane, she does not exist again. And she will never exist, neither in Heaven Light Years Away, nor in some toasty hell below.<br />
<br />
She is nothing. She is totally at peace.<br />
<br />
She is God.D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-2346314677031233002012-07-26T22:44:00.000-05:002012-07-27T08:51:25.317-05:00Flash Fiction Fifteen (for Friday): U Garden<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<i>This next post is inspired by real events this past week. It's written in the first person, which most of my fiction is not. </i></div>
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<i>Emptiness always had a strange grip on me. One of the things I used to love about North Dakota, when I lived there in the pre-oil boom days, was going into an empty town, driving to the closed gas station late on a summer evening, and feeling the sense that alone-ness does not inherently mean abandonment. Sometimes, the big-wide-open with empty space means peace.</i><br />
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<i>* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * </i></div>
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I drive along University Avenue in Minneapolis heading east into Saint Paul. I just got done writing at my studio at the Loft. Got four pages whipped out in the evening session. It was pretty quiet at the studio and I felt like I was productive.</div>
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I actually started driving on the interstate, the way I normally do when I go home, but I wanted to see the Witch's Hat off Huron Boulevard. Besides, I never had taken that exit before. I like to get to know new areas of the Twin Cities. (I've actually started to brag to my Mom that I know St. Paul better than she does, and she grew up here. We'll see, she said.) The Witch's Hat is a tower that looks like a witch's hat. (Clever, eh?) It's on the Register of National Historical Place, which is getting to be less and less of a big deal living in the city, since the house across the street from us in on the Register, too.</div>
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Anyway, I wanted to see the Hat. It's a tower. There's a park there. Cool. Now what?</div>
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I headed north on Huron to University. Then, I turned east, back to S-T-P, as my friend Andrew calls it. Andrew was the guy who first showed me Saint Paul when I first moved here. He grew up here. I'll never forget how our conversation went when we were driving around:</div>
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
Me: "Saint Paul is a nice town."</div>
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Andrew: "S-T-P is a <i>great</i> town. Minneapolis sucks."</div>
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Me: "Why?"</div>
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Andrew: "Dude, if you're gonna be a Saint Paul guy, just don't go there. Spend your $ in S-T-P."</div>
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I'm hungry. I'm still in Minneapolis. The hell with Andrew. I can eat there. Chinese sounds good. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLELz2oC8P_50gGywcjwWEp8uzE2CMkczUyVD6iwHXyACQdClMpY3GiipHNGnfEb4n-mjC71oi8KqDoCamKKGjaf2tqIG41dfWIxifR7K8nsqQl1a6gtaGBt-zNZCvfjs7p4N0/s1600/chopstick_3l1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLELz2oC8P_50gGywcjwWEp8uzE2CMkczUyVD6iwHXyACQdClMpY3GiipHNGnfEb4n-mjC71oi8KqDoCamKKGjaf2tqIG41dfWIxifR7K8nsqQl1a6gtaGBt-zNZCvfjs7p4N0/s200/chopstick_3l1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uh huh. Yeah. Where's my fork?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I turn into the parking lot of the U Garden, a Chinese restaurant just 1/2 mile south of Dinkytown. The parking lot is totally abandoned, except for one car. It has red dingle balls around the inside of every window. An early 80s Cutlass, I believe. Black. Chrome tires. Uh, what kind of place is this?</div>
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I take my nylon, black laptop bag from the comfort of the passenger seat and I toss it into the trunk. Might be paranoia, but I don't want it getting ripped off. I think like that now. Now, that I live here - in the city. My thoughts go back ten years to North Dakota, where I never locked the front door of my house. I didn't even know where the key to the front door was...</div>
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The U Garden is a box building with a cheap sign on the front. When I mean cheap, I mean the lettering is painted on a white background on a plywood sign. The glass door to the entryway gives me chills. I don't think it's been cleaned for a couple days. Do I really want to eat here? I push onward. Dan the Brave, Clan Sutherland, willing to enter into the foreign land - no fear and a belly fond of exotic fare - to forge new bonds in this alien land.</div>
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I get inside. I. Am. The. Only. One.</div>
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
Just me. And two waitresses (oh, sorry, servers). The owner's behind a red, laminate counter with a cheap cash register from China. (At least they're authentic here, I giggle to myself.)</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
The female server comes over. The restaurant has to be as big as half a football field. Well, maybe a third of one. But it's big. And it's filled with fifty or sixty identical tables. They all seat exactly four people. None of them are pushed together to make a table of eight; or twelve; or even two. I can hear the owner's voice in a sickeningly stereotypical (and racist) dialogue in my head: <i>Four people per table. Sixty table total. That equal two-hundred forty customer. I rike very much!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Forgive me, God. I deserve hellfire and wrath for my sick humor.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
I sit alone, at a table of four chairs in the chair nearest the wall by a window. The server kindly asks if I would like a menu or would I prefer to eat at the Chinese buffet. I select the menu. Too many damn people get the stupid buffet. The menu is huge. Six or seven pages long. And it has a thick, heavy, textured burgundy cover which reminds me of the outside cover of some foreign passport.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
I feel like shrimp. I get some shrimp dish. Number Seventeen, I think.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
The owner comes over. He wants to chat. I'm still in my stupid mid-brain with dumb accents.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
"Hi, I'm Tim," he says in a perfectly Minnesotan Midwest American accent.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
Chagrined, I reciprocate: "I'm Dan."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
We talk about why the restaurant is empty. He tells me it's Monday. And the Light Rail construction. He hopes it gets done to schedule. "Thanks, by the way, for stopping by. I hope you enjoy your meal."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
God I love urban Minnesota.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I get my shrimp. It only took four minutes. Maybe five. There's a ton of food: shrimp, cashews, peanuts, celery, onion, sauce, mushrooms, those little corn-thingies-they-only-have-in-Chinese-food. All over rice. Yum. I notice the musak so kindly piped-in, to enhance my dining experience. I wonder if the musak has been produced in China, too, on some endless Chinese musak loop. But before I figure out this philosophical Möbius strip, I realize I have finished all my food. Holy shit. That was a lot. I must have been hungry. Here, eating my meal in the U Garden, I have experienced Kairos time - a taste of Nirvana.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
I just notice something else. There's a cop seated on the other side of the restaurant. What's he doing here?</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
Well, dumbshit, cops eat, too.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
I finish my meal and I walk past the cop. He's got a cop mustache and a cop - belly? Oh, he's a transit cop. I see his patch. He's reading on his Nook or his Kindle, chowing down on Sum Gud Food. As I pass by, to pay my bill, I look at him and say, "Kinda surreal, ain't it?"</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
"What's that?"</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
"I said, it's kinda surreal here, ain't it? With just us in this big restaurant."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
He never looks up from his reading. Is he multitasking? That's impressive, if he is. "Um, yeah. It's Monday. It's never busy on Monday. Plus, it's summer. No school. And the Light Rail."</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
"Yeah. Well, seeya."</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
He lifts his head, still reading.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I pay my bill to Tim and he gives me a fortune cookie.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
I unwrap it and crack the buff-colored, fake-chinese confection open...</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">DO NOT RUSH THROUGH LIFE. PAUSE AND ENJOY IT.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">
I exit the restaurant. I think that car - the 80s Cutlass with the dingle balls - is Tim the owner's. Cool. The sun is setting. The evening is warm and muggy. It's just me in the parking lot. Even University Avenue, usually full of traffic, is empty.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">
I'm enjoying it. Yeah. </div>
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<br />
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<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-92123809062854718362012-07-19T17:03:00.000-05:002012-07-19T17:03:00.506-05:00Flash Fiction Friday Fourteen: Lame Similes<i>The </i>Huffington Post<i> recently published an article titled </i>The Fifteen Funniest Metaphors and Similes Created by Teen Writers. <i>I got such a kick out of them (like Morton Anderson kicking the extra point at a pro bowl game) that I decided to create a story around them. Since most of them deal with a boy and a girl, the story came easily. Enjoy! It's a short one.</i><br />
<br />
He got to know her in art class. He was no good at art. To her, it came naturally. Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.<br />
<br />
It wasn't just that. She was sexy. Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.<br />
<br />
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up. Since he was so shy, though, he had a hard time bringing himself to share his feelings with her. After class, he waited for the opportunity to say something to brighten her day or make a connection. But every time she stepped into view, he was speechless. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a
real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or
something.<br />
<br />
The days and months and years passed. The boy did nothing but yearn and wait. He graduated from High School and went to college, growing into a man. And when I say grow, he shot up like a 6'3'' Christmas tree you see in grocery store parking lots.<br />
<br />
The young man never married. He eventually went to a therapist to seek advice how he could overcome his fear and finally try to speak with the woman of his dreams. <br />
<br />
The therapist gave him great advice. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy
who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at
high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one
of those boxes with a pinhole in it.<br />
<br />
He told him that he needed visualization to calm himself. That whenever he thought of the woman, he should think of a rowboat gently crossing a peaceful pond. The man closed his eyes and he saw the boat. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. And the man felt at peace.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the woman didn't like being single. She was unhappy. She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and
all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and
on top of that you can't sing worth a damn. Wondering what she should do, she looked at her high school yearbook. She saw the class picture of her junior year art class and the young man who would often smile at her, but who would never speak. She wondered where he was.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the star-crossed lovers sought each other out. They agreed to meet in a city park with a large field. They finally spied each other at high noon in the park. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at
4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.<br />
<br />
After a brief courtship, the two were married and grew close. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
- THE END -</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>You can find the original article at The Huffinton Post right <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/08/high-school-analogies-20-_n_1332745.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000003#s766310&title=Meat_Lovers" target="_blank">here</a>.</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNfFqLw7HhLp6pVniw5xfOafhppSVYKlxJff0VRkev_uzufxjsHCbQtS5v4OBf89wJiUQfp9jDQziGtVo3CBQ0QaNdJiJ14xiOCJqiPsFKSoM4HZ6v3324Qtf-8sQHt9oad5J8/s1600/3539b2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNfFqLw7HhLp6pVniw5xfOafhppSVYKlxJff0VRkev_uzufxjsHCbQtS5v4OBf89wJiUQfp9jDQziGtVo3CBQ0QaNdJiJ14xiOCJqiPsFKSoM4HZ6v3324Qtf-8sQHt9oad5J8/s320/3539b2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-44054272697547588192012-07-12T19:53:00.000-05:002012-07-12T20:58:55.000-05:00Flash Fiction #13: Le Chien qui AboyaitThe man always went to the same restaurant on the thirteenth of July. Every year, he would make the journey. It was no easy feat for a man of eighty-nine years.<br />
<br />
It was called <i>Le Chien qui Aboyait </i>and it was located along the Rue de la Harpe, just four blocks from the Notre Dame cathedral. The little restaurant was nothing spectacular. It was the typical block apartment, street-level room carved into a building. Unlike American restaurants, it was not spacious. The kitchen was too near the dining tables and the ceiling a little too low. Outside, had not the building wall been emblazoned with large, black letters and a wooden placard with a little white dog barking, you might miss that it was a business.<br />
<br />
Their food was "folk Parisian", if there existed such a thing. The first time he came there, he had a noodle dish similar to spaghetti with meatballs. Somehow, it wasn't Italian, though. The chef at <i>Le Chien qui Aboyait</i> had taken a multigrain spaghetti and mixed in Provençal flavors of thyme and bay, adding a thyme and caramelized onions ground into a type of sausage meatball. The whole thing was then topped with <b style="font-weight: normal;">Niçoise olives</b>. Neither Parisian nor folk, the man thought the dish strange but tasty.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFfuWMlKrZ2eHsp1e3ksw2LNDW6DCcZZCLPydI09youkmeEDvUdIHvCOLw_d4fSs-3h_NO1wtqeLLtuZKp0O-2wEJKV11EhvRUUdjm-qMlm99WheiqhIsch9oS28KuoFfgvEq/s1600/Menu-restaurant-groupe-Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFfuWMlKrZ2eHsp1e3ksw2LNDW6DCcZZCLPydI09youkmeEDvUdIHvCOLw_d4fSs-3h_NO1wtqeLLtuZKp0O-2wEJKV11EhvRUUdjm-qMlm99WheiqhIsch9oS28KuoFfgvEq/s320/Menu-restaurant-groupe-Paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
But the quality of the venue wasn't what was important to the man. Nor was the strange dish he ate there.<br />
<br />
It was the restaurant where he first proposed to his wife, sixty-years prior.<br />
<br />
Colette was his love. They met in the spring of 1952. The man was in the US Army and was stationed in southwest Germany. He was nineteen. From the Midwest, it was his first foray into Europe, and, quite honestly, it was his first time out of his little town of two-hundred people in Wisconsin for any length of time.<br />
<br />
That spring in '52, he got a leave and chose to go see Paris. A young, eighteen-year old woman sold flowers on the Ile de la Cité square in front of the Cathedral. The young woman could speak a little English. The man chatted with her and asked her name, she told him Colette. Her hair was dark brunette, but not black. And her eyes had a depth to them; they were kind and playful and deep. He told Colette that she had oceans in her eyes - his attempt at the poetic romantic. She giggled and told him, "But zey are not bleu, how can zey be oceans?" The young man went red.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTubEXlUuiqegOj_9qtOBgIvqzfl06sdbuTU8WRzVYL29ozAOcvtz1kQGHBb9Csu3r5mURWdSpVy8qCfgouG8oI92i6Mmw8np7At5ZiOVunpuQiAdeISXFs7bV0ofWNe3gfFYR/s1600/Wc9vA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTubEXlUuiqegOj_9qtOBgIvqzfl06sdbuTU8WRzVYL29ozAOcvtz1kQGHBb9Csu3r5mURWdSpVy8qCfgouG8oI92i6Mmw8np7At5ZiOVunpuQiAdeISXFs7bV0ofWNe3gfFYR/s200/Wc9vA.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oceans in her eyes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a period of wooing and daily letters, the man decided that Colette was the one.<br />
<br />
At <i>Le Chien qui Aboyait</i> he proposed to her. She said yes.<br />
<br />
They had a wonderful life together. Every year, the man, still the hopeless romantic, would purchase two tickets for Paris on the ninth of July (enough time to adjust, see some sights, visit family); then they would make their way down the linden-lined Rue de la Harpe, to dine once again at their restaurant.<br />
<br />
In 2001, Colette died. But the man still came.<br />
<br />
The owner, of course, knew the man. He was sad to see him come by himself in '02.<br />
<br />
"J'ai sauvegardé votre table pour vous, une fois de plus, Monsieur."<br />
<br />
"Merci, Rémy."<br />
<br />
This year, the man ate what he always did - the strange spaghetti with the sausage meatballs. Once again, he ordered a meal for Colette. He told the owner that he could eat it after he left.<br />
<br />
And he looked out the window into the French evening, not feeling quite so alone, because, after all, he was here at <i>Le Chien qui Aboyait. </i>Somehow, he knew Colette was, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-12400325847994292292012-07-05T19:37:00.001-05:002012-07-05T19:37:10.625-05:00Theology Thursday #13: Bang!Every once in a while when I get doubtful about the point of spirituality or religion I happen to see something like this in an article or Facebook post:<br />
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">"As
far as I see it there are only two basic laws of physics: 1) Nothing
comes from nothing, and 2) Something had to. Before there was any mass,
energy, time or space, there was no NO-THING. The moment before the
moment there was no moment. (Figure that one out). In our limited human
intelligence, that means there was a singularity that stands OUTSIDE
mass, energy, time and space that put it all i<span class="text_exposed_show">n
motion. The beginning of science (the big bang) is also the end of
science, because science can go no further than the moment before the
moment. Without anything to measure, there is no science. </span></span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">When David Letterman
interviewed a string theorist a few years back and he told him there
was no mass, energy, time or space, David responded, "Then what, for the
love of God, banged?" </span></span></span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Precisely.<br /> <br /> I believe the love of God banged."</span></span></span></h6>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">The previous quote is from my Facebook friend Rich Melheim, creator of Faith Inkubators, a creative confirmation curricula I once purchased when I was a pastor. I like the quote above, because when I get in an intellectual mood and I'm bored, I get mean and cynical about the church. Going back to the very moment of creation, I find that yes, there is the unknown and there was - at one time - nothing. <i>Creatio ex Nihilo, </i>or creation "from nothing" is an ancient tenet of the Christian church and one worth keeping since it jibes quite well with our current understanding of physics.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ECGYmMvSYqVebcbWusT-YdzIuRNAwaHK_GQom5UHR2xi6zLHEfXndYYUHDnIKlSLJa8rp68uQMyBviagwT8cHxiwWduwF1V32_jg5QZTzxF2AAu3Pgo8SfXrrnJq1xbUbe7E/s1600/ex-nihilo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ECGYmMvSYqVebcbWusT-YdzIuRNAwaHK_GQom5UHR2xi6zLHEfXndYYUHDnIKlSLJa8rp68uQMyBviagwT8cHxiwWduwF1V32_jg5QZTzxF2AAu3Pgo8SfXrrnJq1xbUbe7E/s400/ex-nihilo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out a nuttin'...</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I have a friend (a very, very good friend who has a great blog, by the way, <a href="http://bowhuntingwildfood.com/" target="_blank">here</a>) who has encouraged me to sever all my ties with the church. I think he delights that I'm not a pastor anymore (even more than I do). His upbringing was fraught with what I would label as spiritual abuse. He sees the Church (capital 'C' intentional) as an agent for mostly negative influences on our society. Whatever non-negative influence the Church currently has, I think he would designate as simply irrelevant or wishful thinking. More often than not, I think I agree with him. History makes a fairly convincing argument, which isn't exactly a raving review of religion. Science clearly places much of believers views as childish and unscientific. And looking at the current state of liberal, ecumenical, so-called "Mainstream" Christianity, one wonders how an organization can be, frankly, so impotent in their actions when its words seem to be so strong.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">But I still go to worship.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Why?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I think it has something to do with the need I have for mystery and community. When I stand in line in the sanctuary and hear the words "This is my body" and "This is my blood", I feel that there is something worthwhile, still, in gathering together and being sent out.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Every rational brain cell in my head screams out that there really is nothing, that meaning is something that we, as human beings, attribute to the void, because the void by itself is so terrifying. Rationally, I can understand why people invented God, because without God, life is scary. Rationally, I can understand why people commit violence in the name of God; it is because they feel threatened. I think that some of my best friends are agnostic, atheist, or "just" spiritual. Sometimes, I want to throw the whole thing away and I feel hopeless and cynical. But then, I am reminded of the nothing that once was; time that once wasn't - but is now - and I find hope.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">And, honestly, the story of Jesus of Nazareth is the most appealing to me, because I believe that a human in our midst who struggled within our human condition - and who still managed to live infinite compassion - appeals to me. I want to follow him.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">The Church sucks. But it's kind of like the United States of America: it's not perfect, but it's the best we have. I know this comment will tick off a lot of people from both sides of the aisle. I hope that instead, it might elicit more honest dialogue. What do you think? I love reading your comments.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Oh. And I'll see you in church.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show">BANG!</span></span></span></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-36866049262564815312012-06-28T23:26:00.002-05:002012-06-28T23:26:55.986-05:00Flash Fiction #12: The God of Small Things<i>Hello readers, I was gone last week at my brother's wedding in Wisconsin and I was busy yesterday. But I want to get back writing since it is enjoyable and good for me. Hope you like this one. I haven't done much in the parable or fable genre, so I thought I'd give it a shot.</i><br />
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There once was a man of great stature and wealth who was well-liked and successful in his village from his youth to middle age. Being a trader of purple cloth, his business was lucrative and easy for him. He had a beautiful wife and a dozen happy children running and playing in his vast courtyard. The man had many business and political connections, and, since he was such a likable fellow, grew to have significant influence with the powers that be. The King himself gave him an extensive audience when His Majesty was visiting his province, asking him at length what policies would best fit the Kingdom, which, by all regards, was currently experiencing a booming economy and good trade from its neighbors.<br />
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By all accounts, the man should have been happy. But he was not. So he set out to find the source of his most perplexing and persistent malaise.<br />
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At first, the man went to the village priest who listened intently to the man: "I have success, a beautiful family, a wonderful life, and all the money I could want. But, something seems to be missing. I do not know what it is. Every day I wake and do what is right. I follow all the laws and feel the blessing of my success. However, when I lay down, I feel sad and purposeless. Please help me." The priest came to the conclusion that the gods were telling him to give more to the temple. He said that he should purchase one-hundred, flawless lambs and have them sacrificed at the temple. In addition to that, he told the man that he must give half his wealth to the village, that others may share from his success.<br />
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The man did as he was told. He had his servants scour the countryside for the finest, whitest, most blemish-free lambs he could find. After gathering one hundred of them he gave them to the priest who sacrificed them at the temple for the man's behalf. Then, the man made it known that he would divide half his wealth and give an equal share to every family in the village. The day came and all the people lined at the man's door as his scribes divided his wealth equally. The villagers thanked him profusely and spoke of the greatness of the man at all he had done.<br />
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Yet, the man still felt sorrow and emptiness.<br />
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So, the man sought counsel with the King. The King, who naturally knew well of the man, and, after having heard of his great generosity in his village, was more than happy to grant him another audience. After receiving word that the King welcomed the opportunity to speak with him, the man gathered his servants, and, at much expense, traveled to the royal city to meet the King.<br />
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The King was delighted to receive the man and his family and put them up in the best of the castle's quarters for a month. Every night the King and Queen celebrated with the man and his family and dined over the finest tables set with rich wines and sumptuous food. Yet, every evening the man wept.<br />
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At long last, the King broached the subject with the man: "My friend, you have done much for your village. Indeed, you have done much for my Kingdom as your purple cloths are known throughout the land. You are loved by your family and village; indeed, by everyone. Why is it you seem so sad, so lonely?"<br />
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"My Sovereign, this is my problem. I have success and pleasure, yet I am not happy. I have done as the village priest suggested to purge myself and appease the gods. Thus far, it seems my efforts have been fruitless. So I seek your counsel, my Lord: what shall I do to find happiness?"<br />
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The King listened to the man and thought for a long time. Then, he told the man that he knew the solution. The man had not expanded his business to the furthest reaches of the world. The King had the political and trade connections to make this happen. So the King gathered his caravans and commanded them to deliver ten-thousand yards of purple cloth to every corner of the known-world. The caravans gathered yard upon yard of the man's produce and after months of travel, returned to the royal city. There, the King gathered the man and his family to himself to make the high announcement. Hoards of people thronged the courtyards to hear the King's pronouncement.<br />
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"It is on this glorious day, on the first of July, that I, the Sovereign Ruler of our great nation, decree that this man's fine purple cloth is known to all the world and that new trade routes have been established to provide wealth not only to my fine subject standing here, but to all who reside in our great country."<br />
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The crowds erupted with cheers. Women cried and children laughed with joy at the King's announcement. The King placed a golden, diamond-studded ring on the man's finger and invited him and his family to reside at the Royal village where a new factory was erected in his honor to distribute his cloth to all the corners of the world.<br />
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Yet, the man still felt sorrow and emptiness.<br />
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One evening, while the man sat alone, weeping in his great palace in the royal city, the man's wife heard him. "What troubles you so, my dear? I do not understand after the gods have so blessed you why you weep?"<br />
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"I do not understand it either. I have gone to priests and kings, yet none can give me the answer."<br />
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The woman thought for a moment and suggested the man go into far-off desert across several seas and seek the hermit who lives on a tiny island in the center of a salt lake. She had heard that this hermit had great wisdom and could give him the answer he sought.<br />
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The man hugged his wife, thanking her, and set to find the hermit the next day.<br />
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After months of travel and braving the sea, the man finally came to the salt lake in the desert. In the center of the lake, he saw a tiny island. So the man found a boat and crossed the salt lake and stepped on the sandy shore of the island. In the middle of the island, the man saw a disheveled, tanned creature that was the hermit.<br />
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"Hark! Hermit! I have traveled a great distance to seek your wisdom. I have success, a beautiful family, a wonderful life, and all the money I
could want. Indeed, my fame has spread to every corner of the world because of my fine, purple cloth. All love me and I have no problems. But, something seems to be missing. I do not know what it
is. Every night when I lay down, I feel sad
and purposeless. I have sought council from wise priests and even my King, yet none have solved my problem. What will make me happy?"<br />
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The hermit, who the man could now see was blind, sat in a lotus position, staring at the sun. He sat this way for several hours. The man, patiently waited. When the sun finally set and the day's heat vanished, the man finally gave up and turned to his boat. But before the man could leave, the Hermit spoke. The man could not hear him, so he ran to him, desperately.<br />
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"What? What was that you said? What is the answer to my problem? What will make me happy!?"<br />
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The hermit spoke again: "I do not have the answer to your problem."<br />
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The man's shoulders slumped.<br />
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"But...I do have the answer to your condition. You see, you have been cursed. A demon beset you at birth giving you the worst curse a human can receive. You have everything you desire: wealth, family, fame, and success. But you have these things without struggle, without pain. That, my friend, is what makes you un-human, because to be human you must fail; you must hurt; you must be rejected."<br />
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The man stood, in shock. He asked, "What can I do to become human?"<br />
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The hermit replied, "How do you feel now?"<br />
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The man said, "Like a failure, a reject."<br />
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"Then you have begun your journey to void your curse."D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-22147201390325703542012-06-15T17:01:00.000-05:002012-06-15T17:01:27.440-05:00Flash Fiction Friday #11: Thinning the Herd<i>One of my favorite novels is Ken Follett's </i><a href="http://www.ken-follett.com/bibliography/the_pillars_of_the_earth.html" target="_blank"><b>The Pillars of the Earth</b></a>, <i>a story set in 12th-Century England during the time of the Wars of Anarchy. Often raw and emotional, I became so enthralled with the characters' lives during this time-period, I find myself time and again returning to their world of violence and passion</i> <i>where Good often does not triumph over Evil. However, when Right does prevail over Might, the set and setting of the Middle-Ages makes it seem that much more chivalrous and delightful. For this Flash Fiction Friday</i>, <i>I have opted to enter into a third-person view of a very evil man set in the 1100s of England. <b>Warning: this is pretty dark</b>. Read on to see how it ends.</i><br />
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Bartram was not a very nice guy.</div>
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No wonder, really. All his life he had either been beaten, bullied, or polluted with the idea that to live in this world, a man had to take what he wanted, and take it by force. It worked well for his father Eldrich as it suited him, also, as he replaced his father. Bartram was a big boy and it was easy for him to push around others.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The evil men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones." - Julius Caesar</td></tr>
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It wasn't always that way. When he was young and small and his father would beat him, he did not cry or wallow in a corner, but set out to eat and to grow. Despite the daily beatings his father issued him after his evening mead, his bruises armored him with both a callous body and soul. These callouses, hardened by years of drunken cruelty, and tougher than chain mail, served him well when he finally fought back. </div>
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When he was fifteen, Bartram was much bigger than the pip he had been as a child. He came home from gathering turnips for the fall crop with his younger brother. It was already dark in early October, when the air had that nice, fresh chill to it that made Bartram feel alive. As he approached his cottage, he could see the ruckus stirring inside by his father's body see-sawing up and down through the window. His father's shadow cast a dread over him and every time he raised his hand to strike his mother, his figure obscured the warm firelight within.<br />
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Terror was not an option for Bartram. Even at fifteen, he knew what he must do. The villagers say they never had seen a man beaten so badly. Bartram, for his part, said that his father died falling down the east hayloft. Everyone knew it wasn't true. They knew Bartram had killed his father and the man had suffered terribly. But, aside from the mother and the brother, there were no witnesses. Bartram lived on. And he, as the eldest son, became head of the household. He took the role of his father.<br />
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Now, in the springtime of 1143, Bartram was older, wiser, and much, much crueler.<br />
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The Norman army he had joined had twice given him the opportunity to advance in the ranks. Why? It was not because Bartram was at all a natural leader. He had advanced, because, quite simply, he was the meanest bloke of the bunch.<br />
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When it came time to kill, Bartram did it with overt enthusiasm. His sword and halberd he liked to keep sullied from the blood of peasants he would kill. Often he would sharpen the blades without first washing the offending offal from the metal. Bartram called this "thinning the herd" as he believed that he was doing good by wiping the countryside clean of peasants. This, in its own right, was an irony in that Bertram was raised a peasant. However, in his evil, twisted mind, he saw in every man, woman, and child he killed, he cleansed the land of another person who would become his father. The other mercenaries took this as a good omen, that they had such a treacherous demon in their midst. They believed, of all things, that it gave their unit more power.<br />
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When it came time to rape, he, too, was first in line, and often would take seconds where he would kill his victim as he raped her. This he saw as a bonus payment for his good work he was doing. Good, in that it satisfied his lust for power and destructive will.<br />
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Bartram was a bad man. As a mercenary, the wages garnered in pillaging were to him the perfect spoils for his most enjoyable employment.<br />
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The other men in his rank, for the most part, feared and honored him. And the enemy, when soldiers would actually fight other soldiers (instead of slaughtering common peasants) in this battle now called "the Anarchy", they saw him as a vicious monster they wanted to destroy.<br />
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They wouldn't get that opportunity, however. For Bartram's fate would be legendary for both the Norman and the English side.<br />
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It all happened one afternoon when Bartram entered the house of an unknown village's miller.<br />
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Bartram lead his men to the mill; he knew that villagers would be inside, protecting the precious economic resource. The rest of the village had already been set ablaze and he had satiated his bloodlust with the lives of a dozen villagers.<br />
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He laughed as his men broke down the flimsy, wooden door and entered inside the mill. He heard the screams of several women from the mill's attic. <i>Good, </i>he thought,<i> playtime for after the battle.</i> He unsheathed his sword, already stained with blood, ready for more. When he entered, the anteroom where villagers traded their grain was empty. "Search the premises! Take no one except the women alive!" he ordered.<br />
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The room was a small trading center for farmer's grain. It was worn and the wooden floor had seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of years' wear. The entourage returned with a report: "No one is here."<br />
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"What?" he said. "Of course they are! I heard the screams as well as you. The bluebloods are somewhere. Let us finish this battle and have us some wenches!"<br />
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Still, not a soul could be found. He stomped up the stairs to the mill proper, where the grinding of the two, gigantic stones powered by the creek running below them slowly turned. "Where is everyone?" a soldier asked.<br />
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"They must be here. Who has searched the attic, where the grain is stored?"<br />
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Bartram's underlings answered him, that the mill was abandoned.<br />
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He roared with rage, and said, "They must have escaped! The cowards! Chase after them and skewer them like pigs!"<br />
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The guards left. Leaving Bertram alone with one sergeant.<br />
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He let out a huff and said to his sole companion, "Perhaps they are hidden. Let us look in the mill proper."<br />
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Bartram and the sergeant entered the dusty mill and saw the two stones grinding against each other. They also saw a boy. Bartram took a double take and pointed his sword to the boy. "There!"<br />
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The boy spoke: "Bartram, son of Eldrich, your time has now ended. The unnamed One has seen your treachery and bloodlust. He has opted to take you now."<br />
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Bartram stopped in his tracks, looked to his sergeant with surprise and rage, making sure he had heard the impudent boy correctly. He turned toward the boy, sheathed his sword and took out his dagger. "You shall die slowly and without mercy. Prepare for your gutting, boy!"<br />
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The boy stood fast. Bartram advanced toward him. The boy stepped back, behind the two grinding stones. <i>Did this rascal think he might escape me? This is going to be enjoyable! </i>he thought.<br />
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But just as Bartram came within a yard of the boy, his foot caught on an exposed nail from the wooden floor. Bartram tumbled into the grinding stones and the giant boulders seized the corner of his mail shirt, pulling him into the mill.<br />
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He let out a scream, not from horror, but from rage that a boy and an exposed nail had cheated him out of his prize. The sergeant watched as the boy stood firmly, silently watching as the stones slowly dragged him into the mill. His scream became a gurgle and the sergeant could hear Bartram's bones crushing, even above the din of the mill's gears and clamoring machines.<br />
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To this day, the good people of Norwich know their flour is ground mixed, ever so lightly, with the bone-meal of Bartram, the Norman butcher and enemy of the people.</div>
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The herd grows, well-fed in the knowledge they are safe, at least for the time being, from the vicious predator they once knew.</div>
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<br /></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-42932550413689759342012-06-13T22:20:00.003-05:002012-06-13T22:20:55.650-05:00Theology Thursday #11: 1054When I was in college, a group of guys would get together some evenings in our all male dormitory. We'd stay up late, talking, and our discussion invariably would turn to philosophical and theological topics.<br />
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I remember one discussion I had with a conservative Roman Catholic student. We talked about many things, church polity, the mystery of the sacraments, the richness and history of the divine liturgy; our discussion was interesting and respectful, until it turned into something else:<br />
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RC Guy: "Yes, the church of Rome is the One, True Faith. Since you are Protestant, you must re-think your ways."<br />
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Me: "But, um, doesn't salvation extend to other Christians - indeed, to all people - by the work of Christ?<br />
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RC Guy: "No."<br />
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Me: "Really? But doesn't the catechism of the Second Vatican Council actually extend salvation to those in other, imperfect relationships to God?" (It does, by the way.)<br />
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RC Guy: "[Sigh], the Second Vatican has been repudiated by many learn-ed theologians. The true faith says..."<br />
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Funny. I still remember the look on that guy's face when he answered "no" and the way he said "learn-ed theologians."<br />
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And I still want to punch him in the nose.<br />
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In 1054 A.D. (yes, I know we're supposed to use CE, but I find this more a statement of faith since the year is still the same) the church in Rome and the church in Constantinople split. The year is known as the East-West, or Great-, Schism.</div>
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What it boils down to is that the Church in Rome didn't like the Greeks and didn't like their use of the phrase "and the Son" (the filioque) in the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed. The Greeks thought the Romans were arrogant nitwits for demanding to be called "the Mother Church." Essentially, it was more about politics than real theological issues.</div>
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They split. </div>
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People will always like to think they are "right" as long as there are people who have different perspectives. I used to really let this crap affect me. Why, for instance, do I remember conversations like the one I wrote about above? It's because <b><i>I think I'm right</i></b>. Someday, I believe, that dork will be suffering, knowing that I, too, am part of the Reign.</div>
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Hmmm. Dan, think again. </div>
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It's gotten better, though. How? When I realized that all mythologies are just that: <u>mythologies</u>. </div>
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First, you need to understand the word "myth" does <b>not</b> equal <b>FAKE</b>. Myth comes from the Greek <i>mythos</i>, which means story. Human beings are story tellers. What once captivated people around a campfire, now captivates them primarily on television or online (regrettably).</div>
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<i>Mythos</i> can be differentiated with another Greek term, <i>logos</i>, which is more like an "account." Logos is the logical side of things.</div>
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I believe a chief cause of problems with religion is that religion turns stories into accounts. Accounts, that is,<b> truths which are maximized to the point of separation of humanity,</b> are "worth dying for." Stories, that is, <b>truths which convey the human condition and stimulate cordial discussion</b>, aren't worth dying for. </div>
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They are only worth listening to...</div>
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Tell me your story, your Mother's story, your Great Grandfather's. I will listen. Tell me an account, a truth to separate, to tear and rip; I will walk away. </div>
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1054 does not need to come, yet again.</div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-9938240482927547792012-06-07T21:32:00.001-05:002012-06-07T21:37:59.213-05:00Flash Fiction Friday: Guest Column - The Other Woman<style>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i>I met Rachel Jones in a writing class at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. She and her husband Tom are preparing this fall to live in Djibouti (again) to work and live. She is an aspiring writer and wonderful mother. I feel honored to know her and her family. Thank you, Rachel, for contributing to Flash Fiction Friday on Big Bluestem Blog. </i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><i> (Readers, keep her in mind; she will be a published, well-known author in the future!!)</i> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<u><b>The Other Woman</b></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<u><b><br /></b></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u0wtw2fKwTcp93X-n0T3ijAuwERF2JBtk9otWlJxSLzW16_9OoVSDeFrs3W-fVsZCx5_aWMzz3aokDhy8mykMMElh6vZMORk91PeApjvWUFqYPhKAzv-Zb1PstqAjhuAU4yy/s1600/aqal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u0wtw2fKwTcp93X-n0T3ijAuwERF2JBtk9otWlJxSLzW16_9OoVSDeFrs3W-fVsZCx5_aWMzz3aokDhy8mykMMElh6vZMORk91PeApjvWUFqYPhKAzv-Zb1PstqAjhuAU4yy/s200/aqal.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
house doesn’t have walls or floors or ceilings. The two-room bubble hunches
over the rocky ground, made of twigs, rags, and animal hides. There is no light
and no window and cool breezes never stir the see-through curtain dividing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i> in half. I have to bend from my
waist and shove aside a flap of goatskin to walk through the low doorway. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsi</i> burns<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i> filling my home with spicy, intoxicating perfume.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Everything is drenched in shadow, from
the single water jug to my weathered skin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
am weaving a water basket to meet the needs of my growing family. I pull the
dried grasses tight, careful to not leave even a miniscule hole through which
water carried from the Jubba River would drip. To save water, I scrub our
cooking pot and wash my arms, face, and legs for prayer with fistfuls of dirt.
I drink goat milk and one cup of tea every day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
hear the children playing outside and feel the sharp kick of the one in my
belly. My three daughters and four sons play soccer with the cow stomach I gave
them at the end of Ramadan. I chant as I weave, poems of boys who have come
home from grazing camels or searching for rain clouds. I almost scold the girls
for running, showing off too much of their legs but tomorrow they will sit with
me, weaving, cooking, sewing. Even Samsam who was born only five rainy seasons
ago. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Today
is a holiday. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eid Carafo</i>, marking the
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hajj</i> to Mecca. No one in my
family has ever gone on pilgrimage. I have never even gone into a Somali town.
My husband is there today, selling goats and trading for necessities; rice and
flour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This
morning when he left, my husband took too many goats with him. I fear he is
trading for more than necessities. I fear he was preparing the bride price for
a second wife, a city wife to keep him company. While I was beating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laxoox</i> for breakfast, I saw him leading
all those goats from our herds and ran after him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What
are you doing?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Taking
these goats to town,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“To
sell them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You’re
buying a new wife.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Woman,
you are half-mad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
brandished our knife in his face. “You will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
take a new wife.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
will do as I please.” He shoved me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninka awrka cirka arkey dameerka xeerka ka
tuurey</i>.” A man sees a camel in the sky and throws away the donkey in his
yard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
He
spit next to my ankle. “Make a new bed ready for tonight.” He walked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“If
you take a new wife I’ll die!” I screamed and the wind howled, sucking my words
away, blowing them across the desert like dead thorn bushes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And
now I sit, weaving, waiting for my husband to return so we can slaughter a goat
and celebrate the forgiveness of our sins and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nebi</i> Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his own son. I told my
children the story the night before so that they would know why we celebrate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eid Carafo</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Allah told Ibrahim to take his son into the mountains.
He was to bind his son as a ram and slaughter him, offering a burnt sacrifice
of praise. Ibrahim obeyed and tied his son to the altar. He raised a knife over
his head, ready to thrust it into his son’s heart.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Samsam
covered her face with her hands. My other daughters trembled but my sons sat
tall and brave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ibrahim!” Allah called to him. “Do not kill
the boy. Now I know you love me above all. You are a true Muslim.”’</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Ibrahim
heard the cry of a ram caught in a thorn bush. He and his son killed the ram
and worshipped Allah on the mountain.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
make a loop of dry grass and shove another blade through it. Tug and yank.
Repeat. My mother taught me basket-weaving. She had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">minweynta</i>, the first wife. Her husband married three other women,
each younger, more beautiful, fatter and more fertile than the last.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
When
he brought the second wife home, my mother welcomed her with kisses and a new
dress. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Minyarta</i>, the young wife,
slapped my mother and called her an old hag. My father built his young wife an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i> beside my mother’s. He never
entered my mother’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i> again. The
new wife was honored and treasured above my mother for four rains, long enough
to give birth to two boys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Then
father brought home his third wife. My mother didn’t greet her but sat with her
back to the new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i>. The third wife
provided two daughters and a son before he brought home his fourth wife. That
night my mother wept into her hands as I scraped at her toe nails with a razor.
This girl had not begun her time of blood yet. But over time she provided him
with four girls and two boys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If my husband brings home a new wife, I will
die.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
pull our knife from the folds of my dress. The shadow from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i> falls over it, but a sliver of
light glints off its blade. I am alone. The children are outside and no other
family has settled nearby. There are no women to gossip with, only my growing
belly and my fingers weaving, weaving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
watch my hands pulling and twisting and looping. They are powerful and create
watertight baskets. They held eight children to the breast and buried one. They
load camels and build <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i>s, cook
rice and spread henna in my husband’s hair. My hands are powerless. They cannot
bring the rain or stop hyenas from ravaging our flocks. Tonight they will greet
the new wife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
remember my husband’s command to make a bed ready and set aside my basket. I
sweep dust and rocks from our dusty, rocky floor and gather blankets. I
consider placing a scorpion between them. I stand back, looking at the sleeping
place I have made and run my finger down the dull blade of our knife, drawing
no blood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
duck outside, squinting in the daylight and find a large, smooth rock. I spit
on it and sharpen our knife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
would enjoy the help of another wife, with seven children and one on the way. I
would enjoy the company, gossip, stories, and poems of another wife. I would be
relieved to share my husband’s endless lust with another wife. My dilemma is
that I am a woman and I don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> my
husband to take another wife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
stare into the nothingness of thorn bushes and dust and picture her face. Our
knife slips from the rock and slices my thigh. I feel more concerned about the
rip in my only dress than the blood painting my leg and I let it bleed. When
the blood slows, I wipe our knife on the ground, leaving red stains in the
dirt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
husband doesn’t return until after dark and it is too late to slaughter a goat
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eid Carafo</i> and the forgiveness of
our sins. He isn’t alone but I can’t see the new wife in the dark night. The
boys sleep under the moon to keep watch for hyenas. While my girls curl up next
to me in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aqal</i>, I worry about our
sins remaining on us for another year. I worry that the hate I feel for this
younger, more beautiful woman will cause Allah to send me to hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
pretend to be asleep when my husband enters. He is speaking with a woman. I
smell her perfume and watch her shadowy shape. She is smaller than I expected,
her breasts saggier. She doesn’t speak and settles into the bed I made. Without
a word, my husband lies down next to her. They don’t talk and soon both are
snoring, curled away from each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
unwrap my arms and legs from my daughters. I approach the woman. Her face is one
with the blackness, her body round and fat, as all second wives should be. I pull
my knife from my dress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
raise the knife over my head, just as I imagine <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nebi</i> Ibrahim did. I screech and plunge it into the woman’s chest.
Her eyes flash open, their yellowy whites glare at me. Her mouth opens to
scream but no sound comes out. Blood pools around her tongue, behind her four
rotten teeth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
husband jumps from his bed. He corners me and tries to wrench the knife from my
hand. I slash it back and forth, hissing. He tackles me and steals the dripping
knife, slicing my palm. I see my daughters standing in the doorway. My sons
have lit our lantern and crouch in the doorway. My husband grabs the lantern
and shines it on the face of the woman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
knees wobble. I faint, falling on top of my mother’s dead body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7k-DlVzK8_5w_JB-8ljm1_JCTZ1Y-HEZ-oWHrpLfHzP-DbxXB-l5QbRZ3tyKLDJ3-Bzr6NKCEumXVTrAi71GFEuikUhNNl9kxs9yItb047900Oe2fgnxxP7GAEwae7tRa9rpL/s1600/rachel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7k-DlVzK8_5w_JB-8ljm1_JCTZ1Y-HEZ-oWHrpLfHzP-DbxXB-l5QbRZ3tyKLDJ3-Bzr6NKCEumXVTrAi71GFEuikUhNNl9kxs9yItb047900Oe2fgnxxP7GAEwae7tRa9rpL/s200/rachel.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rachel Pieh Jones has
written for the New York Times, The Christian Science Monitor, the Desiring God
blog, and Running Times. She lives in Djibouti with her husband and three
children and blogs at: </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><a href="http://www.djiboutijones.com/">www.djiboutijones.com</a></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-23058857743646450802012-06-06T23:14:00.003-05:002012-06-06T23:22:26.212-05:00Theology Thursday: Guest Column - Baptismal Death<i>I knew Kris Capel in seminary twelve years ago. We were both students then. Now, I'm no longer a pastor; she's a big-shot leader in a church in Eagan, Minnesota. She's also a great writer and a hell of a nice person. (Hmm, can you say that about clergy?) </i><br />
<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="color: #351c75;">You are actually dead. </span></h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One
of the greatest privileges I have in life is celebrating the gift of
baptism. At the church where I work, whenever we baptize someone, we go
to the house of the about-to-be-baptized to get to know the family and
to talk about the gift of the divine bath.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Last
week, I had the best baptism visit of my life. After talking with the
couple for a short time, it became clear to me that neither one of them
had been raised in the church. The Spirit was simply nudging them to
have their baby baptized. They ended up at my church through the
recommendation of a family member. After the idle chat that takes place
when you first get to know someone, I asked them, "So what does baptism
mean to you? Why are you feeling the nudge to have your baby
baptized?" </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The
father of the baby gave me the most honest answer I've ever heard. He
said, with a question mark in his voice, "Because if we don't, and he
dies, then he'll be in pergatory forever." Of course, my first reaction
was to laugh - thinking he was joking....(which I didn't, be proud of
me!). But my second reaction was to apologize. So I apologized to him
that he feels that way. I apologized for the bullying the church has
done through its rhetoric and misguided theology over the years - and we
started to reframe the sacrament in terms that made sense to him.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The
first thing I told him is that Baptism is all about love. On the day
that sweet-cheeked little baby is baptized, God will give him a hug and
God will never let go - in life or in death. Furthermore, his family
will expand to include all of these people who will love him, pray for
him, cheer him on in every little step of his life. Also - he will
receive the sign of the cross on his forehead. Of course, that sign is a
watermark which you can't see. But you can never wash it off either.
Jesus literally makes His mark on us in our baptisms and we carry that
with us for the rest of our lives.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The
coolest part of the conversation was when we talked about where the
water comes in. We talked about how when Jesus was baptized, he
probably went under water in the muddy Jordan- submerging his whole body
and submitting his life to his Father's will. So when we baptize, even
though we only "splash" water in our tradition - in God's eyes we are
actually going under the water and dying. We go under - and all of that
stuff in us that is no good - anything that is not "of God" - actually
dies. We die to ourselves and our own impulses and tendencies. But
when we come up from the water, we rise, dripping wet with God's amazing
love and grace. We die with Jesus and we rise with Jesus. And rising
means that we have every reason to live with hope.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After
we talked about the dying and rising part - the dad looked at me with
tears in his eyes and said, "I have goosebumps right now." And then he
said, "So you're saying that God is actually THERE when my baby is
baptized?" At this point, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">was tearing up.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I said, "Yes - and every day of his life - God is actually THERE."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We
wrapped up the conversation by talking about the candle that we all
receive in our baptism. The candle is a symbol of Jesus shining his
light through us. I'll bet you a lot of money that little baby is
already shining God's light! But now, it's official - God's light is
ALIVE, flickering, flaming, loving and living.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I
have to say, that baptism visit made a believer out of me.....again.
If I ever had any doubts that God shows up everywhere and all of the
time - those doubts were buried deep that day.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So
if you ever doubt the promise of your baptism - just remember that you
are actually dead. Which, unbelievably, is GOOD news. Because being
dead in baptism, means that God is ALIVE in you! And - if you needed
proof that all of this is true - read it and weep:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Romans 6:3-4</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>Or have you forgotten that when we were joined with Christ Jesus in baptism, we joined him in his death?</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>For
we died and were buried with Christ by baptism. And just as Christ was
raised from the dead by the glorious power of the Father, now we also
may live new lives.</i></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i><b>Kris Capel</b> is the </i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lead Pastor at Easter Lutheran Church in Eagan, Minesota. She received her
B.A. in Music and Religion from Wartburg College and her MDiv from
Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque, Iowa. Pastor Kris loves working with
people of all ages. She is married to Dan Coyle and has two daughters,
Annika and Amelia. In her spare time, you can find her hiking, biking
and swimming. Pastor Capel is serving at worship and preaching
frequently. Her Blog can be found at <a href="http://imintograce.blogspot.com/">http://imintograce.blogspot.com/</a></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-27522913398348214522012-06-01T16:41:00.001-05:002012-06-01T16:45:09.004-05:00Flash Fiction #10: Awake"Brandon? Can you hear us?"<br />
<br />
I struggled to look at my mom. I felt weird, disconnected. "Uh..." was all I got out.<br />
<br />
My mother screamed and started crying.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * * </div>
<br />
That's how it was when I woke up. It was a year ago today.<br />
<br />
On June the first in 1982 I was in a car accident. That's at least what they tell me. I don't know. I can't remember it. But it must have happened that way, because here I am.<br />
<br />
But there are things that I remember. I remember that I was ten years old that February. Now, they tell me, I'm forty.<br />
<br />
It still sounds weird when I say it: "I'm forty." My face crinkles up when I hear my voice say that. My voice. It's also really deep. It's different.<br />
<br />
The car accident put me in a coma. I remember Dad going to that one movie on Grand Avenue with Mom. Coma. They wouldn't let me see it, 'cause it was rated R.<br />
<br />
I loved to watch movies with my dad - the popcorn, seeing the previews for movies coming out, sitting in the dark aisles on the cushy, red seats. That's the way it was when I saw Star Wars. What a great show.<br />
<br />
My dad's gone now, they tell me. They say he died in '89. I still have a hard time hearing that. It seems like I'll ride home on my bike after school, open the front door, and Dad will be sitting there, on the plaid easy chair - the one we've always had, but don't anymore - reading the afternoon paper.<br />
<br />
But he's not...<br />
<br />
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There's a lot different with 2012 than 1982. When I 'went under' - that's what I call it, because I can't think of any other way to describe it - Ronald Reagan was President. I still have my old Rubik's Cube in my room at home. But, to me, it's not 'old.' To me, I just got that cube about a year and a half ago. I remember when I got it for my birthday, in fact.<br />
<br />
They say stores don't carry Rubik's Cubes anymore. But if you have one, they're collectors' items. <br />
<br />
In 2012, all the phones have push buttons and you can walk around with them in the house! You know, without a cord! There are even phones that you can carry with you outside. I think they call them cell phones.<br />
<br />
All the cars are round. They look funny, like cars from the future. They don't fly, though. They told us by the year 2000 that we'd have flying cars. And they said they'd run off something else than gas. I remember Mrs. Andresen in fourth grade telling us that we would run out of gas by 2004. We haven't, because my mom still pumps gas into her Toyota.<br />
<br />
It doesn't fly, either.<br />
<br />
Music is really different; there's so many kinds. And you don't play them on Walkman's anymore. My mom told me that you can't even get cassette tapes or records. You have to down-load them on a computer. The internet, is that what it's called? So weird.<br />
<br />
The town I'm from is different. Places look the same, but there's new buildings up and some of the streets are really different. My friends have even come to see me. But I don't think they're my friends. They're just people with the same names and, you know, grown ups. I don't think I want to see them again. <br />
<br />
My school is pretty much the same. When I went under I was in fourth grade. But, now, I can't go to fifth grade at my school. And it's not just 'cause they don't have fifth grade at my school anymore, but put it in a middle school; it's because they think I need to go to a special school. Rehabilitation, they call it. I think it's dumb, but I do like one of the nurses, or whatever she is. She helped me walk again. That was hard. I thought I'd never walk again. It took a while, but now I get around just fine.<br />
<br />
Now, they're working on my brain, they tell me. They said it hasn't been exercised in thirty years. That's true, because I don't remember dreaming when I was under. My brain must've been totally asleep.<br />
<br />
My mom tells me that not a day went by where she didn't come to the hospital. Everybody told her she was crazy. That they should've pulled the plug on me.<br />
<br />
She never would let them, though.<br />
<br />
I guess that's good. I'm alive.<br />
<br />
But I feel like all my life has been interrupted somehow. Almost like leaving a movie halfway through, but having to leave because you gotta go to the bathroom. You come back in, wondering what happened. You ask your dad, "What happened?" But your dad isn't there anymore. The movie looks strange. There are new characters you don't know. And all the old ones are somehow different. You don't even want to watch anymore. You want to go back, but you can't.<br />
<br />
I guess I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad I'm awake.<br />
<br />
But I keep wondering if I'm still asleep. I wonder when I'll wake up again - for real this time - and find this whole thing has just been another dream. That I was in a coma for thirty hours instead of thirty years. I'll see Mom and Dad sitting by the hospital bed. They brought me my Rubik's Cube and my Walkman. My body won't look so . . . old. My voice won't be so funny. And the world will make sense again.<br />
<br />
But I don't think that'll happen.<br />
<br />
I think I'm really awake.<br />
<br />
Am I? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-54787004839600820692012-05-31T20:53:00.002-05:002012-06-03T20:12:20.798-05:00Theology Thursday #10: Etiology and Wisdom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiWO9LbC0YAHnYJKSxdXI9KT69Bevti9wbftlMmVpbM_Kl9LU6Ljnv5zcnVEnBK5evZZDEISCEU0MFvOZCXH6zpYMosDJTQ4TsIq37tBjR2qJHpwYtDQoNbGPOiH4QNhPGfZ5/s1600/general+tso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiWO9LbC0YAHnYJKSxdXI9KT69Bevti9wbftlMmVpbM_Kl9LU6Ljnv5zcnVEnBK5evZZDEISCEU0MFvOZCXH6zpYMosDJTQ4TsIq37tBjR2qJHpwYtDQoNbGPOiH4QNhPGfZ5/s320/general+tso.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Who in the heck is General Tso and why is there a chicken dish named after him?<br />
<br />
Is there really a difference between ketchup and catsup? (And who calls it catsup, anyway? In fact, as I'm typing this for my blog, the spell-check has it underlined in red as a typo.)<br />
<br />
Why is corned beef 'corned' when corn is never used in the production of said meat?<br />
<br />
I've always been fascinated with the origins of things. Etymology is definitely a lost art. Certainly, it is a vocation which doesn't pay well, since nothing is produced other than a "well-I'll-be-darned" from the readers.<br />
<br />
But the origins of words - and, more importantly, of rituals - have to have meaning attached to them, otherwise going through the motions of a ceremony or the utterance of a word or phrase degenerates into another meaning, which has nothing to do with the original implication of the word or act.<br />
<br />
Let me give you an example: <br />
<br />
A friend told me a story in graduate school about his church he went to in Illinois as a child. This church, being a modern house of worship, included laity in their liturgical activities. Typically, for the first and second readings, the pastor recruited a lay reader to recite the texts. However, before the lay reader would ascend steps leading to the lectern in the front of the church, he or she would bow, lowering his or her head.<br />
<br />
My friend who told me the story said that he always wondered why they did this; perhaps they did it out of reverence for the Holy Bible. Or maybe they were paying homage to the altar, also located in the front of the church. As a kid, he never found out. When he got to college, though, he worshiped in other congregations and noticed that the readers there never did this. So he took the initiative one Sunday to ask an older parishioner concerning this odd act. He said that when he asked, the older member laughed out loud and told him: "No! The reason why they bow before they go up to read is that there used to be a railing you had to duck to get under as a person climbed the steps. After they took the railing out, the people kept on ducking!"<br />
<br />
Here's another:<br />
<br />
Once in a Pastor's text study in North Dakota a more traditional colleague of mine bemoaned the loss of the second-person pronoun used for God in the King Jame's Bible: <i>Thou</i>. He told me: "I don't see why we have to translate the new translations with <i>You</i> when someone is addressing God. After all, we should be more formal with God since He is our creator." (I intentionally capitalized <i>he</i> in that quote, since that seems to be another fetish with traditionalists.)<br />
<br />
I tried to inform my esteemed colleague that <i>Thou</i> was the familiar form of <i>You</i>, a form most commonly used with children, family, or very good friends. I told him it was very similar to the German <i>Du </i>and <i>Sie</i>. In fact, I apprised him that German Bibles reflect this in that they use the familiar form when addressing God. So, <i>Thou</i> isn't really formal at all. God is supposed to be someone with whom you can chat like a buddy.<br />
<br />
He didn't buy it.<br />
<br />
But it's true.<br />
<br />
Often we find that the origins of things are so lost within the tangled buckthorn of history, that they entirely lose their meaning or gain another, wholly different one altogether.<br />
<br />
Within the fields of politics, history, theology, spirituality, and linguistics, I think it is necessary to have a comprehensive understanding of the etiology of the particulars to gain a true - and more comprehensive - understanding of the whole. It's what holistic, liberal education is all about.<br />
<br />
And...it is the beginning of wisdom.<br />
<br />
Oh, by the way...<br />
<br />
<b>General Tso</b> (or Zuo Zongtang) was a Chinese statesman and military leader in the late <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qing_Dynasty" title="Qing Dynasty">Qing Dynasty</a>. He had nothing to do with the chicken dish we now order in Chinese restaurants. It probably was a late 19th Century or early 20th invention in the United States.<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (source: Wikipedia)</span></i><br />
<br />
Still - it sure is tasty...<br />
<br />
<br />
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Oh, and if you're still interested:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.foodiggity.com/ketchup-vs-catsup/">http://www.foodiggity.com/ketchup-vs-catsup/</a><br />
<br />
-and-<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2153/how-do-you-corn-beef">http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2153/how-do-you-corn-beef</a>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-23329837600380735062012-05-24T19:47:00.001-05:002012-05-24T19:57:30.529-05:00Flash Fiction Friday #9: Liminality is a Wonderful Nighttime SnackThe 9mm Glock is a great gun.<br />
<br />
It rarely, if ever, jams.<br />
<br />
In fact, when Glock GmbH, an Austrian-based knife and fine cutlery firm first designed the model 17, their goal was to have no more than 20 malfunctions permitted during the first 10,000
rounds fired, not even minor jams that could be cleared without the use of
any tools. Nobody thought Glock could do it. The laughed at the little knife maker who had never even attempted at producing a firearm before.<br />
<br />
But Glock did it. All because of new materials and ingenious engineering.<br />
<br />
The Glock 17 was so aptly named because the Austrian military had seventeen different criteria which needed to be filled for a new handgun for purchase in 1980. A competition was held to find the new gun. Glock set to meet all the criteria with flair.<br />
<br />
They won the contest, hands down. The tough little plastic gun that just wouldn't jam.<br />
Except for mine.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQlR9-UxXK1SdkFjBK_WvcLG0UATlTZIwrc8lgdTFphx2uyHrugUXyf-5M_3n61L185BCg9RjDaqKw6-dUfnnAr5ffjzIMbjJpa_xeOgDSmYFpVwMTh2KDYZ9Ape_D8jxOCss/s1600/camel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQlR9-UxXK1SdkFjBK_WvcLG0UATlTZIwrc8lgdTFphx2uyHrugUXyf-5M_3n61L185BCg9RjDaqKw6-dUfnnAr5ffjzIMbjJpa_xeOgDSmYFpVwMTh2KDYZ9Ape_D8jxOCss/s320/camel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder how many times a camel has changed history.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fine, I know, I dropped it in the sand. And a camel walked on it. And shit on it. But that's beside the point.<br />
<br />
Youseff bin al Harlas was in my sights. And I pulled the trigger. Nothing.<br />
<br />
Dammit.<br />
<br />
At least he didn't shoot back. I don't even know if he had a gun with him. He just smiled that sly, wild dog smile that he's smiled before and walked off.<br />
<br />
We had tracked Yibber (the nickname we gave him - personally, I think it's much better than "the Comet", which is the codename Langley gave him) for the past seven months. Al Qaeda's cells have gotten much more dispersed since Bin Laden was taken care of. We really have them beat, you see. But they keep adapting, changing. We don't even call them Al Qaeda anymore. We call them...er...can't talk about that.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
There I was in south central Yemen, a government attache to the Swiss consulate on trade, and my Glock jams on me.<br />
<br />
There are certain points in history in which we realize that a chance has been taken and is now lost. That was one of those times; a threshold between two existential planes about to be born.<br />
<br />
The only way I can find any consolation now is to fantasize, right before I go to sleep, that had I had another chance, I would have done things differently.<br />
<br />
I would have left Sana'a (Yemen's shitty capital) an hour earlier than the Swiss consulate. I would have made the excuse that I don't like traveling at high noon. <i>It's the heat, you know. </i>Lots of excuses, really.<br />
<i> </i><br />
I would have, then, never met the dusty caravan trading machine parts for oiljacks. My privacy, then, would have left my gun devoid of camel stomp and shit when I dropped it trying to conceal it from the little boy from the caravan, who was far too nosy for an eight year old.<br />
<br />
Then, I would have met Yibber by myself at crossroads 67. He would have asked me for a light, and BANG! Thup. Yibber's dead. Medals for me. Maybe retirement in Europe. Somewhere nice like the Italian lake region in the north. Lago Maggiore or Locarno. Yes.<br />
<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
The Yibber smiled at me.<br />
<br />
And my Glock had sand and camel shit stuck in it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, that moment of historical significance, that liminal edge of making it big, slips away.<br />
<br />
And all your left with is your what-if-fantasies.<br />
<br />
But maybe it's better this way. I still have a story to tell my grandchildren (<i>I was this close to him!</i>) And I didn't have to kill someone; even a religious nut like Yibber. That's good, right?<br />
<br />
What would my life be like had I done it? I don't know.<br />
<br />
But I know that tonight I'll sleep well. Because, tonight, I'll toy around with the what-ifs again. Then I'll sigh.<br />
<br />
And I'll drift off, wondering.D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-36615148569186946562012-05-23T17:50:00.000-05:002012-05-23T17:50:07.746-05:00Theology Thursday #9: The Gift of PerspectiveThe Rocky Mountains cast a long shadow.<br />
<br />
It's a special kind of shadow. It's a <i>rain shadow</i>.<br />
<br />
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Because of the effect of North America's generally west-to-east prevailing winds and the tremendous capacity of the Rockies to precipitate moisture, a wide, dry swath is cast from approximately Billings, Montana to Alexandria, Minnesota in the north. In the nation's midsection, it's not as wide. There, the mountains cast a shadow from about Denver, Colorado to Topeka, Kansas.<br />
<br />
The lack of moisture - some parts of eastern Montana only receive twelve inches of precipitation per year - prevented trees from taking root. Because of the lack of trees and the region's proclivity to suddenly catch fire and spread for miles, we have what we know as the Great Plains.<br />
<br />
One gift of the Great Plains is the prairie. Diverse grasses and a multitude of forbs thrive in the semi-arid environment.<br />
<br />
The other gift is <i>far sight</i>. A person can see the horizon on the prairie.<br />
<br />
When I lived in North Dakota, one of my friends would often tell me that he hated visiting the mountains or a woodsy state like Wisconsin or Eastern Minnesota. He said to me that it bothered him that he couldn't see the horizon. "You can't see the weather that's coming," he remarked. I can see his point; it's nice to see what's coming.<br />
<br />
Although I hated the wind in the Dakotas (it sucks the life out of you, literally) I loved how far you could see. There's a reason why they call Montana "Big Sky Country." The gift of the prairie is that you can see where you came from and where you are going. In fact, early settlers noticed this. They would tell stories - no doubt these weren't exaggerations - where a family in an oxcart would put out a campfire in the morning, travel all day, and then when they would retire for the evening, they would see their own fading campfire smoke on the horizon where they had camped the prior evening.<br />
<br />
The size of the shortgrass prairie is daunting. On our family's land we used to own near Killdeer, North Dakota, I would walk through the restored native prairie and feel so <i>small</i>. It was a good thing, because I often get so wrapped up in the everyday worries and stresses and forget the truth that I am not the center of the universe.<br />
<br />
Far sight is the gift of the Great Plains. It is a gift that I hope to take with me in my new life in urban Minnesota. As a believer in a larger purpose of life through what we metaphorically call "God", I believe that far sight - wisdom, sagacity, erudition - is something towards which I do not naturally gravitate. In fact, I think it's a rare person who naturally has far sight. This is especially true in a person's youth - my father tells me he was once as wild as I am, but he has better perspective in his years. However, as a believer, there is a source of far sight beyond the horizon of our own understanding.<br />
<br />
What is this source?<br />
<br />
I think it has something to do with the collective wisdom and history of a faith community. The natural source of this for Christian communities is in scripture. I write this with some hesitation, however, because the usual tendency for short-sighted people is to take scripture's witness out of the context in which it was written. That is to say...times do change, so I realize that scripture isn't the whole of far sight. <br />
<br />
Another source is found in the silent meditation and compassion of the soul. I have never been so entranced with the prairie as on a July summer evening when the wind, finally, is silent. It doesn't happen very often. When it does, it is amazing. Finding time and space for silent reflection is one key to finding perspective in our everyday troubles, in our petty worries.<br />
<br />
The point is, we have the land to teach us how to live. Wisdom, I find as I grow older, is found in many places. Far sight exists, because there is land where the horizon is free. I hope that place remains, because it has something to teach us. <br />
<br />
O the gifts we have to learn from the prairie!<br />
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<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-15813941971614765692012-05-17T21:44:00.000-05:002012-05-17T21:44:23.945-05:00Flash Fiction Friday #8: I Guess 73's My Year<b><i>I've been wanting for some time to write a short, powerful death scene in the first person. It was harder than I thought. Can't really say "Enjoy!" to my readers on this one. I suppose "Appreciate" would be more apt. Yeah. Appreciate... </i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
"I don't feel good," I said to the little kid in the school hallway. <i>What's his name again?</i><br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" the kid asked.<br />
<br />
"It's...it's my heart. I think. I think you better get an ambulance...go...get--"<br />
<br />
"I'll go to the principal's office!"<br />
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I slumped to the linoleum floor. I haven't had heart issues since '64. That's what my wife, Franny, called it, my problem - heart <i>issues</i>. It sounded like something I just heard on the evening news with David Brinkley: "Tonight, viewers, we have <i>issues</i> in the oval office. President Nixon stated once again the fact he was not involved in the Watergate Hotel break-in..."<br />
<br />
Issues. <i>Issues</i>! God, this hurts!<br />
<br />
I'm looking at my green overalls. I'm thinking: my life is flashing before my eyes...<br />
<br />
Flashing. Flashes. I'm seeing Franny. We're getting married. I love her.<br />
<br />
It wasn't like this last time. It was more...I dunno, around my heart. Now it's in my arm. And I feel sick. I can't breathe!<br />
<br />
I'm six again. Growing up in South Dakota. My older brother is dunking me under water. <i>Jack! Stop it!</i>! <i>I can't breathe!</i><br />
<br />
The bell rings.<br />
<br />
Kids are coming out of their classrooms.<br />
<br />
"Mrs. Finnicum! Come fast! Mr. Westermeyer's on the floor!!"<br />
<br />
Mrs. Finnicum comes quickly. What a class act! That lady. Still wore makeup in her forties and everything. Not like those liberated women. Look at me. Can't even stand up for that lady. I'm so weak. So...<br />
<br />
Her face. What's wrong with her face?<br />
<br />
Oh yeah. I'm having a heart attack! I'm dying!! Jesus, help me!!<br />
<br />
"Luke, go to the principal's office and call an ambulance...er, what's that they use now? Nine-one-one!! Call them!" Mrs. Finnicum said.<br />
<br />
I think I'm passing out. The pain. My arm. Is this what it's like? I thought I'd pass easy. Why can't it be easy? Help me!<br />
<br />
"Hel...Help."<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, Mr. Westermeyer, we're getting help for you!"<br />
<br />
"Why's he turning blue?"<br />
<br />
"Quiet, Susan!" Mrs. Finnicum barked.<br />
<br />
"Jack. Jack! Can you hear me?"<br />
<br />
"Y...Y--"<br />
<br />
"Don't speak. Just wait." Mrs. Finnicum reached behind my head.<br />
<br />
"Susan! Get Mr. Smith...the fourth grade teacher, now! He knows CPR."<br />
<br />
Susan ran. The kids were all around me now.<br />
<br />
And then...<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
The pain was gone.<br />
<br />
I heard a rushing sound, like when you're a kid and you hold your breath and then finally let it out. The sound in your ears. You know that sound? It's a rushing sound in your ears!<br />
<br />
I feel okay now! Hey! I'm okay!<br />
<br />
Except I'm not saying it. Why not?<br />
<br />
The kid's all have glowing lights around them. They look like little angels. Little, corduroy-clad angels.<br />
<br />
And Mrs. Finnicum. She's an angel too. Are you crying? Don't cry. I'm okay now. Franklin Elementary's Janitor, Mr. W, Jack W, he's okay now! What's happening to me? Everything's weird.<br />
<br />
And it's okay.<br />
<br />
That wasn't so bad.<br />
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
The stars...<br />
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<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-59591399786080960492012-05-16T22:39:00.001-05:002012-05-16T22:39:52.691-05:00Theology Thursday #8: Spirituality?I just returned home from a service commitment I do every week at a hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota. Like, moments ago. I love this time. A bunch of guys I care about deeply go with me to share their stories of addiction and renewal with other great people who are suffering from alcoholism and drug addiction themselves. As you might have guessed, our commitment is at a treatment center in the hospital.<br />
<br />
My friend, Eric, picks me up the same time every Wednesday in his blue Subaru wagon with Tennessee plates. (He went to Hazelden, like me, to get sober. He lives in a sober house in St. Paul.) After sharing our weekly nice-to-see-you-again conversation, Eric picks up a couple of other guys living in a different sober house. (St. Paul is filled with them. Ahhh, Minnesober.)<br />
<br />
The weather is perfect. I should be grilling. But here I am.<br />
<br />
Why? Just read on...<br />
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We get to the hospital. He parks the car and we walk pass the Dorothy Day house downtown with run-down folks waiting in line to get their supper. We walk to the hospital entrance on Exchange Street and talk about the weekly chatter in the recovery community: another guy in the sober house has relapsed. This time, it's a guy who went on a $1K crack binge in Minneapolis. We shake our heads and stand there, thankful, that we are sober, realizing how close all of us are to that rocky cliff.<br />
<br />
When we pass the hospital cop, he waves to us. He knows our faces. We're there every week. One of the guys tells a joke and laughter breaks out in the elevator as the little bell rings, telling us we're on the second floor.<br />
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Floor two is abandoned, except for the southwest corner, the CD Unit. A friend is there waiting for us and we find out he's celebrating sixteen years sobriety. He gives me a hug and tells me, "Good to see ya, brother. How you been?" I tell him that I'm fine. More than fine, actually. I'm great. I feel special, mostly because he's a really cool black dude from St. Paul and he likes me. We're both damaged goods. But, here, we are brothers who have found a new life.<br />
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The nurses station has a tired, middle-aged, Asian woman sitting behind the desk. A subtle Mona Lisa smile comes when she sees us. "Nice that you came. We really appreciate you." No, Ma'am, I appreciate <i>you</i>. I know that addiction is everywhere and your job will never go away. I know that you clean up puke and deal with assholes like I was in the throes of withdrawal, the wee hours of detox, the early sunrise of recovery.<br />
<br />
Another nurse takes us to the group room, which is a long, yellow chamber with nothing but old chairs circling it, like an eighties, institutional asteroid belt. The "patients" trickle in. They are a cross-section of St. Paul: blue collar, aging drunks from the eastside; tweakers from Minneapolis that somehow ended up east river; an attractive, twenty-something Hmong woman comes in--<i>is she pregnant?</i>; young white guys who shoot Heroin-the old problem that is now the new problem in the Twin Cities, thanks to Mexican gangs who discovered a new niche; but, all of them, once babies who were rocked to sleep by their mothers. They are worth it, because I am worth it. Because God says we have value and I believe it.<br />
<br />
We share. We cry. We recite <i>How it Works </i>and the <i>Twelve Steps</i>. More importantly, we share what it was like, what happened, and what it is like now. I try to make it simple as possible. I remember what I was like and I know that I needed compassion and acceptance, as well as hard, harsh honesty.<br />
<br />
We talk about God, prayer, and all that spiritual stuff. Some of the folks shudder. It's not where they are coming from.<br />
<br />
A realization comes to the guys I came there with and we seem to get into a theme with our sharing: spirituality shouldn't be religious wackity doo-doo. Spirituality is just about life. It's finding the center that has always been there, but we often don't hear because our fears and our self-will run amok yells too loudly.<br />
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The people start to listen. We are listening to ourselves as we share this. We know it's true and it's a truism that has been hidden somehow. Like a shadow in your peripheral vision, spirituality as "simply living" is something you know to be true, but you somehow just don't want to accept how easy it really is.<br />
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We finish with the serenity prayer and people come to us, thanking us that we came. We thank them and they look at us perplexed. Yes, you keep us sober. The Spirit is alive, because pain shared is somehow less painful. We are on the journey together and we feel as one.<br />
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Spirituality is just learning to live, finding our true selves. It's the best high you can ever get. And it's natural and free.<br />
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<br />D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-62778731468635104332012-05-10T22:00:00.000-05:002012-05-10T22:00:03.432-05:00Flash Fiction Friday #7: The Phloating Phiddler Crab of GJ 667AB<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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They said it was a Super-Earth.<br />
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That's not to say that the planet was "really great" super. It was super as in it was like earth. Kind of. Only that it was four times as massive as Earth.<br />
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It isn't that great, actually.<br />
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I came here alone. After Earth's astronomers had verified that GJ 667AB, a trinary system in Beta Hydra, indeed had liquid water, I decided to make the little trip (a mere 22 light-years from home - and I say mere, because for the Halvras Drive, it was nothing to get here.)<br />
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The thing is, it was a one-way trip. But I only found this out after I got to the damn ball of water.<br />
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You see, the Halvras Jump Drive requires thulium, a rare-earth element needed to bring the jump drive to super power and thrust it into an artificial singularity created at the tip of the ship. Don't ask me to explain it, I just know they don't have any goddamn thulium on this planet. Not any I can access, anyway.<br />
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Oh, you're asking why I didn't bring extra thulium?<br />
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Good question. Except the answer is really quite simple: I wanted to save money.<br />
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Instead, I brought along recent technology's most advanced mining robot. The company even gives your mining robot a name. Mine's "Phred." Kinda cute, eh?<br />
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I thought I'd mine my way back home from this tri-starred system. Well, it only stands to reason that such a massive super-earth type planet would be rocky. Rocky equals rocks, and rocks equals thulium, no? I could even take back extra thulium from my mining excursion. It was great! Right?<br />
<br />
Well, no.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because this planet is covered in oceans fourteen to two-hundred fucking <i>miles</i> deep! My robot "Phred" only can go in oceans one to two miles deep. I thought this would have been fine, plenty of wiggle room. Besides, I thought most of the mining Mr. Phred would be doing would be on land, not underwater.<br />
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I had a little conversation with Phred about this. He's got an onboard conversation computer, see. I told him that he would have to strengthen his outer shell so he could mine below the water. He told me it was impossible. He said that he would be crushed, not only by the water pressure at such a depth, but the planet was so massive to begin with, that there was no way he could survive in those depths to even search for thulium. Survive? You're a robot, Phred. Buck up and get down there, I said. He refused. It's part of his programming to self-preserve his robotic "being."<br />
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Phuck you, Phred.<br />
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Now I'm stuck on this water world. I don't see Kevin Costner coming around the bend on a homemade boat, either.<br />
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In fact, there's no life here as far as I can see at all.<br />
<br />
Just me, my ship ( bobbing like a cork on the alien sea...nice that some company's promises are true), and Phred the Phat ass lazy mining robot, phloating along on a world where I weigh 315 and there's no way to get home.<br />
<br />
I can make it at least a year. The water's fresh, too. Maybe I'll try swimming. Maybe I'll push Phred off the ship. I could celebrate his downfall. Eh, better not. A year alone on the open sea can get pretty lonely. I bet Phred and I will be old buddies by then.<br />
<br />
Too bad you can't teach mining robots how to play cribbage.<br />
<br />
I'm sure someone else will come to GJ 667AB.<br />
<br />
And maybe they'll bring extra thulium.<br />
<br />
Probably.D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-24072139407401926652012-05-09T20:59:00.000-05:002012-05-09T21:22:54.332-05:00Theology Thursday #7: Sea ChangeI don't care for reality shows.<br />
<br />
Mostly because they're not <i>REAL</i>. I admit, they're entertaining. But, let's face it, no survivor reality show would ever let any of their contestants die in a tropical wilderness. And no social show would really allow somebody who was mentally ill to continue participating within the show.<br />
<br />
I even found out recently that a favorite show in our household is as contrived as a "reality" show. HGTV has a show called <i>House Hunters </i>- my wife, Carol and I love to watch it. Just two weeks ago, however, I found out that the buyers on the show actually have already decided on a house before they come on the show. I guess the producers do this, because, if they didn't, the buyers might not like the choices the show gave them for a house and they'd end up houseless at the end. Can't have that... can we?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life's not like TV?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Life's not like TV.<br />
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Life is messy. And many times there isn't a happy ending.<br />
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TV has contrived endings and is far too neat.<br />
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Life requires compromises in the face of <u>radical changes</u> - <i>sea changes. </i>A sea change is a major change, a change that stirs everything up. Much like a baptism, it is a change where coming up out of the water one is wholly, totally different.<br />
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The United States is currently experiencing a sea change with the topic of gay marriage. In fact, it's more than a change. It's a culture war.<br />
<br />
Like any war, there are casualties. It seems to be a null sum game. That is, there are winners and losers. Both sides feel in a visceral way how their argument is right and the other is wrong.<br />
<br />
I'm not going into the Biblical argument, because it's been hashed over a zillion times, and quite frankly, I'm sick of it. Maybe this will turn off some of my readers, but I'm not going down that path. We all need to come to terms with the fact that daily we all make decisions about things that aren't in the Bible. That's because the Bible isn't concerned much about modern life. That's not even getting into a First Century understanding of science. Folks, we just don't live in that world anymore.<br />
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If you remember nothing else about this Theology Thursday, remember this: gay marriage is not an "issue" and being gay is not a "lifestyle."<br />
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Gay marriage is about people's lives.<br />
<br />
And, although there are some who may not like it, it's not going to hurt them. Not in the slightest.<br />
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But to those who only want the right to live life to its fullest with the one they love and have a legally accepted relationship - so that when their loved one dies they have a legal right to be there at their death bed - it means everything.<br />
<br />
Why can't we (meaning the heterosexual majority, of which I am a part) give that to them?<br />
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The sky will not fall. The earth will not quake. People who love each other will have legitimacy within our legal system. (And, yes, I know that their love needs no nod from "us" to be right in God's eyes. Love conquers all. It can't hurt to acknowledge the human need to say "I do.") Unlike a real war, the casualties of this culture war will ultimately be phantom wisps. Fifty years from now, we'll look at how silly some were. The change will come. Maybe not so soon in North Carolina, but it will come.<br />
<br />
The phrase <i>sea change</i> comes from Shakespeare's <i>The Tempest</i>. The spirit Ariel (which, interestingly, has historically been played both by male and female actors) has a wonderfully evocative song acknowledging the change of Ferdinand's father by the sea:<br />
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<i><b>Full fathom five thy father lies:<br />
Of his bones are coral made:<br />
Those are pearls that were his eyes:<br />
Nothing of him that doth fade<br />
But doth suffer a sea-change<br />
Into something rich and strange. </b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The new reality that we are entering is that there shall be no longer male or female, no longer Jew or Greek, no longer slave or free, no longer gay or straight. In God's eyes, we are one. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Let two who are in love be one. Let them be and love the rich and strange changes that are coming.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'll think you'll find after you get to know these new couples (men with men, women with women, and transgendered, too), they won't seem so strange. They'll just be... people.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At least not as strange as some of the reality shows out there.</div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-85514649445447417252012-05-04T16:53:00.001-05:002012-05-04T16:53:59.656-05:00Flash Fiction #6: Needle & Thread<style>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"> The following is an excerpt from my novel Needle & Thread. All text is copyrighted and may not be reproduced. Enjoy reading!!</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;">"Hard to believe that one night
more than sixty years ago, during a dance that had turned rowdy, someone hit
Lawrence Welk over the head with a brick in Hague, North Dakota."</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;">- Ian Frazier, </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;">Great Plains</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxZyAwr5vSFMY2kGrXaNvey3wK_liNdVrk0rPrnE70kZjAJC6T7qrjSQGdUMCrCs43Ru51pAeaznFDn7yGa9qGVPud9PFqSlyFr7RZfQFIGAID_hU41TeCqd9FPOf9_5Tovmk/s1600/CIMG1502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxZyAwr5vSFMY2kGrXaNvey3wK_liNdVrk0rPrnE70kZjAJC6T7qrjSQGdUMCrCs43Ru51pAeaznFDn7yGa9qGVPud9PFqSlyFr7RZfQFIGAID_hU41TeCqd9FPOf9_5Tovmk/s400/CIMG1502.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dog quivered, eyes wide and body frozen as
he stared into the grass. Landon crouched behind him, grasping the check cord
with two hands. He was caught in the rapture of the moment, his lips spreading
open and a faint smile steadily growing on his face. The dog was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on point</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was nine in the evening; at this latitude in
early June, the sun’s warmth glowed on Landon’s skin. He closed his eyes while
the dog held steady, statue-like, immersed in the moment. He breathed deeply
and slipped into non-time, the realm of the transcendent. Although the sun’s
heat continued to resonate through him, distant clouds obscured the day
gradually, like theater lights dimming, signaling the commencement of a play.
He opened his eyes and looked at the dog, whose eyes gaze was still fixed and
remembered the work at hand.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a trainer, Landon’s job was to hone the dogs’ instinct to point. This was to
instruct them to resist the temptation to break their trance and flush the game
prematurely. He thought hunting with pointing dogs for upland game birds as
more an art form than a necessity. Anyone could buy frozen chicken breasts from
a grocery store. Taking the time to find, shoot, clean, and cook a wild bird
was a luxury, primitive yet elegant. The dogs’ passion to find birds was
beautiful; bounding and leaping to find the game, the sudden stillness of a dog
standing point took his breath away.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
pointing instinct never failed to amaze him. A vestigial behavior from
ancestral wolves, medieval dog breeders took the trait and refined it.
Generation after generation each dog inherited the wolf’s instinct to stare
down their game the location of the quarry. For pointing dogs, this instinct
was amplified so the dog would freeze up when he smelled any trace of game to
signal his pack leader – the human hunter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Breeders
developed this trait in dogs as a strategy to capture game. When a bird or a
rabbit felt threatened, there were two ways it might react: one response was
the animal would run; the other instinct was to bury itself in cover and
freeze, hoping the predator will miss it. Pointing dogs were the trump card for
the second response. They could find and pin down the location of the game so
the hunter could bag it. While the Thirty Years War raged in central Europe,
breeders quietly developed this breed of dog. The hunters tossed their nets in
front of the dogs’ noses and gathered the day’s table fare for their lords.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
technology progressed, hunters exchanged their nets for firearms. The dogs,
whose progeny developed into dozens of breeds, assisted the new generation of
hunters. Instead of throwing a net, the hunter would kick the grass and shrubs
concealing the bird in front of the spellbound canine. Then, bursting in a
flurry of wings, the pheasant, woodcock or grouse exploded into the sky just as
the shooter took aim.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Landon
imagined the medieval hunters felt the same pride and fascination with their
dogs’ ability that stirred in his heart. Holding the check cord firmly, he
repeated the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whoa</i> command and stroked
the dog’s sleek fur. As the pigeon took wing, he couldn’t help but think that
the dog’s cocked ears and outstretched tongue signaled a smile.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
trainer stood from his crouch and released the check cord. The dog vaulted into
the open prairie, content that he had done well. Tall, puffed clouds continued
to shroud the fading sunlight in the west as Landon looked into the broad vista
of his training ground.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Looks
like rain,” Landon said as lightning flashes silently threatened in the
distance.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"> ****</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;">The Badlands of the northern plains
were in thunderstorm season. The gods of summer frolicked in pyrotechnic
insanity, meandering across the prairie sky, emptying their chalice, whose mix
was both life and destruction on the plain—precious water, flame, or flood.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
clouds were white and bright. Tall, leaning themselves into the eastern
blueness, they seemed like gods imposed on the infinite canvas of grass and
buttes and sky that was Dakota. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“See that one?” Landon pointed. “That’s a cumulonimbus.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You mean the one that looks like a big-damn-white wall of death?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Landon raised one eyebrow, turned his eyes toward his assistant,
Wade, with a bit of contempt and amusement, adding, “Yeah, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> one.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Palatino; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>He
loved this time of year. Training was underway, grass was green, and the storm
season was upon them. He liked thunderstorms in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Great</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wide</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Open</i> of western North Dakota. A
transplant from the east, he never got over how big everything seemed. And how
<i>small</i> he felt within it.</span></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-88374774462118938802012-05-03T21:10:00.000-05:002012-05-03T21:17:42.415-05:00Theology Thursday #6: Obdurate SinI recently finished Stephen King's Novel 11/22/63. It is one of his best and I enjoyed it immensely. The plot revolves around the main protagonist Jake who travels back in time to the late 50s to eventually try to prevent the assassination of JFK. King is a master of description without being wordy. He's intelligent while not being highbrow. (In fact, he can be quite lowbrow at some times, and I appreciate it!) One phrase that sticks with me is: "the past is obdurate." (I know, this is a highbrow word. I couldn't help myself.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXjM2rV77P6xX_UqDQ5m0ZzimgpxnsvjPEzmZ6Hc22FqXcsDQsdOwVYQJk9kfGhrN1tlxNq3FrVerYATqnAcFxDi0iwTKvl0xpkGblRaRs-4zgqVhcO7A1-_aA8WWgerrovPr/s1600/us_11-22-63_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXjM2rV77P6xX_UqDQ5m0ZzimgpxnsvjPEzmZ6Hc22FqXcsDQsdOwVYQJk9kfGhrN1tlxNq3FrVerYATqnAcFxDi0iwTKvl0xpkGblRaRs-4zgqVhcO7A1-_aA8WWgerrovPr/s400/us_11-22-63_cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Without spoiling the story (which is bloody brilliant, by the way) the meaning of this phrase is that the past "does not want" to be changed. Jake finds proverbial wrenches thrown in his plans to change the past at every turn. It made me think of how the past - one's own past - does not change. It can haunt you, if you let it.<br />
<br />
Ancient Israel called sin <i>hamartia</i>, or <i>missing the mark</i>. The sin of a person's selfishness misses the mark only insofar as it harms both parties affected. "Sin" is such a loaded, judgmental word that I don't even like using it. Unfortunately, another one hasn't been found. To deny its existence because overtly religious folk have abused and twisted its meaning is simply burying one's head in the sand. Evil happens. Sin is. And our sins and regrets from the past seem obdurate, stubborn. They are sticky, like gum spit out in July on hot asphalt. You step in it, you'll know its stickiness.<br />
<br />
In Hazelden's devotional <i>Twenty-Four Hours a Day</i> a phrase continues to be an earworm from my treatment days: <i>those two awful eternities</i>. Basically what they are saying is that the past and the future, with its sticky sins and its terrible fears does us no good. Here's the quote:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Anyone can fight the battles of just one day. It is only when you
and I add the battles of those two awful eternities, yesterday and
tomorrow, that we break down. It is not the experience of today that
drives us mad. It is the remorse or bitterness for something that
happened yesterday or the dread of what tomorrow may bring. Let us
therefore do our best to live but one day at a time.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sin may seem to stick to us. The past may continue to haunt us. Obdurate and stubborn, sin missing the mark is difficult to shake off (especially for perfectionists like me). But as a believer who hears the story as "truth-building", I believe that the haunting of the past or the fear of the future are just phantoms of a different reality, a reality without Jesus of Nazareth. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Fortunately for us, we have a different story.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It makes the sin a whole lot less sticky. I hate being sticky, don't you?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-71902654322950550282012-04-26T22:22:00.001-05:002012-04-26T23:16:56.092-05:00Flash Fiction #5: A New and Novel Weapon Against our Common Enemy<style>
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The council was impressive. Every grass wanted to attend. Every grass had to attend. As
the August sun broke the horizon, the light washed over the sea of rich green
and tawny blonde stalks. Only the dome of the sky grew above them in this place.
Here, at least, the <i>tall ones</i> hadn’t yet
come. The open prairie was their own…for the time being.</div>
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But fear of the enemy on the horizon had called them here. Fear called them, and a need for action. </div>
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The din of one billion blades of countless species of grass
swooshed in the gentle wind. A warm-season giant rose above them all,
stretching his leaves outward. The other grasses—even some strange, scrawny
forbs with pungent yellow leaves—took notice. The Monarch was a Big Bluestem,
an ancient warm-season. He had ruled the prairie for decades. He survived fire,
drought, flood, and wind. His tripartite seedhead looked like a foot of a
turkey. Full and plump, each seed dangled, ready to deliver its genes to the
wind, where Big Great Blue had millions of children.</div>
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As the morning wing stirred in the great-wide-open, Big
Great Blue began to speak: “Warm Seasons, Cool Seasons, Forbs, Weeds, and
fellow Sedge…” the Great One paused as the attention of the plains drew to him.
He continued, “We have a great threat at our doorsteps.</div>
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“You know of the evil of which I speak.” An audible gasp
flew up and murmurs made their rounds.</div>
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The Monarch continued, “Yes, yes. The ancient enemy, we must
acknowledge, is far stronger than us.”</div>
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A cry came from the Ryes, “We can beat them! They can’t
block it all!”</div>
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The full-sun species scoffed at the Ryes: “Quiet yourselves,
shade-lovers!”</div>
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Always the politician, always willing to compromise and live
with neighbors, Big Great Blue raised his leaves and boomed to the prairie: “We
must <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> fight amongst ourselves! Our
greatest strength is our diversity! Our roots grow strong. And deep. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we shall not </i>outcompete each other while
our enemy advances, year after year, to destroy us all.</div>
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“Yes, we know that some of us—the Ryes, Bluegrass, the
Beebalms and Hostas—some of you are willing to live with them. But they will
grow taller. They will dominate and wash away soil. They will push up and up
and shove us down as they take up every square-inch of nourishing sunlight!”</div>
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The grasses nodded. All species knew Big Great Blue was
right. He was always right. His wisdom came, after all, not from him alone, but
from the eons of growth under the prairie soil. More than simply allies, the
rhizobacteria and roots took invisible carbon and infused it into the ground,
making it black and whole, full of life and experience from the ages. Big Great
Blue’s roots went deep into the network. He knew what was best for them all.</div>
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The grasses wondered if their king was hesitant out of fear.
After pregnant silence, he spoke four words. These words would be the true
purpose of their gathering: “We need a weapon.”</div>
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“Fire! More fire!” Cheatgrass screamed. </div>
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A response came from one normally quiet. Not now. Winterfat,
terrified at the prospect of more fire, replied, “I bet you’d like that, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cheat</i>.”</div>
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“No fighting! And no, we shall have no more fire!” Big Blue
boomed.</div>
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“But what? What weapon can defeat them?” Indiangrass and
Needle-and-Thread asked.</div>
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“We require a new and novel weapon against our common enemy. We must enlist the humans.”</div>
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Porcupine Grass quivered. “The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">humans?</i> The ape-people?”</div>
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“Yes. They are our best weapon against the high-ones. They
may tame some of us. And to attract them, we shall need to be sweet for the
four-legged ones.”</div>
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“Why?” an unnamed yellow grass asked. “They will eat us!”</div>
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“Yes. They will. We must learn to adapt. You see, the humans like to kill and eat the
four-legged ones. The four-legged ones are not leaf-eaters. They belong on the
plains. We attract the four-leggeds, the humans will come.”</div>
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Nodding Rye and Needlegrass nodded in affirmation.</div>
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Their King was indeed their One Monarch. He stood, inspiring. He knew his wisdom was true. He said, “The humans will chop. They will burn. They will push and
pull out the seedlings of our enemy. With them, and the four-legggeds, we shall
rule the earth!”</div>
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The wind swished across the flat plain and the infinite multitude erupted in applause.</div>
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*********</div>
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Thus, it was foretold, that grasses made their compact with
humans, the greatest weapon of all against the trees. </div>
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And the rain would fall. And the trees and shrubs would push
into the plain. But the ape-people, with their cleverness, would push them
back.</div>
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And the grass swayed in the wind, content.</div>
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But some looked at the ape-people with their clever tools. Some of the grasses wondered. Some of the grasses asked, "How long, O Monarch, will this peace last?"</div>
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Great Big Blue knew, but he did not share.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1ryRD4AORco_tfxnGWSZjs_bnwg8sOeeXZG_J-6kHpcg1r9TLNXpS6TfEqcytTuacDYsQzLaIGA9vxy7S80K80mBuOejWeNYlFSNFq9BeXrFF0VD96pRcbmzQSUNRWiI0ZTk/s1600/Happisburgh-illustration--005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1ryRD4AORco_tfxnGWSZjs_bnwg8sOeeXZG_J-6kHpcg1r9TLNXpS6TfEqcytTuacDYsQzLaIGA9vxy7S80K80mBuOejWeNYlFSNFq9BeXrFF0VD96pRcbmzQSUNRWiI0ZTk/s640/Happisburgh-illustration--005.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21886366.post-53497602292695579852012-04-25T21:14:00.000-05:002012-04-25T21:14:10.523-05:00Theology Thursday #5: Anger and Perception<style>
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First of all, let’s get something straight: when I perceive
there is an injustice, no matter how small, I turn into an asshole.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S8h3TQ_kWfjujVqHvsKJGdZPcIXoHovFs1EBsDf0WsgC7ZvB5Xc-jKUqTDs6D0U1R8PsuJ-mEcLOk09jSgbZFNVP9WOA3ugauTYz_21UNx7L8OCoaK_56j8m20C7rC1nL-OR/s1600/Photo+on+2012-04-25+at+17.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S8h3TQ_kWfjujVqHvsKJGdZPcIXoHovFs1EBsDf0WsgC7ZvB5Xc-jKUqTDs6D0U1R8PsuJ-mEcLOk09jSgbZFNVP9WOA3ugauTYz_21UNx7L8OCoaK_56j8m20C7rC1nL-OR/s200/Photo+on+2012-04-25+at+17.30.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take your pick...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5owVkThK06XrIimLFrKLWpnFu8YAkaHkExex5BoAkOctTmrr7fhefmCaqvAwBulzaxlqTsKh2-JgmhlEMkCHq3uDcmgm2uM8UfQuoI7Zu0FaOL9LThq-4AkB9V0UXlI7spR6/s1600/Photo+on+2012-04-25+at+17.30+%232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5owVkThK06XrIimLFrKLWpnFu8YAkaHkExex5BoAkOctTmrr7fhefmCaqvAwBulzaxlqTsKh2-JgmhlEMkCHq3uDcmgm2uM8UfQuoI7Zu0FaOL9LThq-4AkB9V0UXlI7spR6/s200/Photo+on+2012-04-25+at+17.30+%232.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They're both valid angry faces.</td></tr>
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Banking regulations demanding I pay for a service that is
pointless, poor service at a restaurant, another driver cutting in on the
highway, or any life-isn’t-fair situation...they all make me fume. Typically, I turn
that fuming on someone who has little power to change the situation. Typically,
it hurts no one but myself when I do this. I don’t know why I do it. But I do
know that other people have this problem, too. So I’d like to look at this from
a theological angle, both as a therapy for myself and for others who may read
this blog and find that it may help them, too.</div>
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I think my obsession is rooted in something good. That is to
say, I think an understanding of “how things ought to be” is a gift. Without a
common understanding of justice, there would be no order; only the powerful and
oppressive would rule. Some might say this is already the case, but I’ll leave
that for another time.</div>
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My selfishness and my temperament make the injustice seem
like something that is threatening me right now. My perception is distorted. So I react. I rant and rave
and try to argue my way out of it. Rarely, it works. Most of the time, I get so
worked up about it I hurt no one but myself. I’ve learned through my 12-Step
program to recognize when this is happening. But I wish I could prevent my
reaction to begin with!</div>
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This is a spiritual issue, because spiritually I make the
center of my understanding (my world) of all that I can perceive. My emotions
take control. That doesn’t make emotions bad in themselves. It just means that
emotions without perspective and spirituality are like a railroad car going off
the tracks. </div>
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I’d hate to be on the receiving end of my ranting.</div>
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What’s the solution?</div>
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An experience I have weekly is my service commitment at St.
Joseph’s Hospital in St. Paul. Weekly, our men’s AA group hosts a meeting in
the Chemical Dependency Unit or the Mental Health Unit, depending on the week.
It’s incredible. The people are very appreciative that we come there. We
appreciate them, because they show us where we came from and we can share the
experience, strength and hope of the 12 Steps.</div>
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After the meeting, I’m never thinking about my piddley
little problems. I’m energized in helping others. It amazes me that in order to
get out of myself, I have to help others. To really help myself, I have to be
there for someone else. To live I must die to self.</div>
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That’s all spirituality is. It’s not rocket science. It’s
about how to live a whole life. It’s about seeing God in the suffering, the
forgotten, the needy… and providing.</div>D.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07980537963993507357noreply@blogger.com3