We’ve all had conversations where the person talking says, “You get what I’m talking about?” or “Do you understand what I’m saying?” … and we’ve all nodded and said “oh, yeah”, even though we had absolutely no clue. 

We say yes because we don’t really care to understand and want to change the subject, or it was just way over our head … and we don’t have enough interest to ask for clarification, or we pretend to be smarter than we are. I’ve done it, you’ve done, we all do it.

But what if that person was trying to tell us something really important? What if we zone out on a really integral lesson, being placed right at our feet – but we’re just too lazy to pick it up.

Every single day holds potential to learn something new. It’s out there, all we’ve got to do is pay attention.  Wouldn’t it be nice if we always went about our days and nights with open minds and hearts?  … but we don’t, we’re human. 

I am a student and I am a teacher. All I can teach is what I think I know, and I am hungry to learn things I didn’t even know existed. Unfortunately, I am consistantly faced with the same lessons over and over. 

I guess I’m just not “getting it.”

And I’d really like to get it. I want to understand. I’m open to changing the way I think and what I believe, if it would advance me on my path. But there seems to be so  little guidance sometimes. And I find myself trying to work with what I have, but times like now, it isn’t enough. 

I ask for help, but that hasn’t turned out well. I think I must live in a very strange bubble that nobody can relate to. Because I’m not interested in advice that involves any kind of revenge or anger or retaliation. I just want help processing difficult emotion without causing more harm.  I think I’m asking for help from the wrong people. 

But where are the ones I need? Where are the people who can listen to me without judgement or debasement? Who can I speak my truth to that will look past my words and just see me and my desire to heal the situation?

It’s really kinda sad. Thank god for god. Because right now, that’s all I’ve got.

I am only human afterall. For as much strength as I have, I am just as weak. 

I tend to bear the burdens of others better than my own. I am the listener, the mender, the inspirer. I mend the broken bits and make them whole again. I’m quite skilled at doing this for others, not so much myself. …but I am learning.

There are things in my life that I have done that I am not proud of. I have sad memories, but I’m happy to say that most of them have been resolved. I don’t like when things fester and bubble over. I want a solution, and even when I am mired in misery, I focus on that. 

I’ve always wondered why I’ve always been such a good friend and yet I haven’t had many to return the kindness. I’ve worn this, like a badge, for years. It’s the story of my life.

I give. And I give. And I give. And just when I need a friend, I am turned away, judged, demoralized, crushed back into the very grave that I was reaching out from.

When I was in junior high, I had very few friends. And those I had, many where carry overs from elementary school. I didn’t participate in a lot of social activities, shy as I was. But one sunny afternoon, I had a chance to go home with some childhood friends after school. 

There were 3 of us. But I soon learned it was 2 against 1. And I was the odd man out. Even after all we had shared years ago, even though our families knew one another through PTA and school events and church, they still duped me into coming back with them so they could kick my ass.

Funny how I was so naive. I thought we were friends, we had shared history, we even laughed and joked together as we walked. Her mother served us chips and soda before we went upstairs to do “girl” things. 

And then they started pummeling me. They punched and kicked every part of my body except my face. I recall the kicks to the lower back especially, how they make my legs go numb and I fell to the floor. I didn’t ever see it coming. And when my cries became so loud, her mother ran upstairs and dragged me into the bathroom, where she tended to me. And begged me to tell me what happened. But I didn’t know. I had no idea. For some reason, I was the object of anger and fury and I sat bleeding and bruised and sore. And I refused to tell her that it was her darling daughter and her best friend who just kicked the shit out of me for no reason.

I went home, I limped home and tried not to cry, but I did. Mostly because I didn’t understand the cruelty or where it came from. I suffered alone with that. Never told anyone. I avoided those girls for the rest of my schooling, which was another 4 years. 

Strange, just when you think you’ve made a friend, they’ll kick you down. I don’t think I ever did anything to deserve the beating, it just happened anyway.  The pain remains, but the questions do not. I don’t care why. I just don’t want it to happen again.

I am the creator of my universe. I have a totally unique perception of this world, and with my meager tools, I make my way through. 

I’m thinking about the manifestation of dreams. Making real the thoughts I have. 

I’ve been told, “Thoughts are things, choose good ones.” And so I try to do just that. I avoid idle gossip, I avoid toxic people and situations, I even change the radio station when the song playing doesn’t make me happy. And I don’t stop until one does.

I’ll be honest about being stubborn. But I’ve come to realize, this thing that I’ve been branded as is more akin to tenacious. I am tenacity embodied.

And these dreams, oh, these dreams seem so much larger than me right now. Isn’t that how they start? Beguiling and impressive…

But I am not afraid to dream big, and there are some dreams that I’ve held onto since I can remember remembering. And those dreams are the very ones that seem the hardest to achieve. Or so I think. At least, they seem the farthest away. But I could be wrong if I wanted to be. 

To manifest dreams, one must first have a thought, a desire. And then the unending faith that it will come to pass. We must see it, hold it, experience it as if it were here now. And before you know it, you’re living the dream. I can say this only because of my own experience with creation. It must start in the mind for it ever to grab hold of the heart.

Faith is essential in this process. Without it, no dreams can pass into reality. Faith is one of those words that can be so easily confused and diluted. But faith is surprisingly easy when you have desire, true, strong, desire.

And that’s where tenacity comes in. I am tenacious in my faith, I hold fast to it and it has never let me down. Faith for me is not “god”, it is a mere knowing that I am responsible for all of what I perceive. God is a part of it, in my experience at least. He/she/it/they – whatever. God is the source of my tenacity and allows me the willingness to own it.

And so I dream … of things big and small, beautiful and gentle. And I will keep on keeping on, until every last thought I desire has been manifested, and when that day comes, I don’t need to be here anymore. 

The manifestation of peace can only be attained by forgiveness.  (me)

It is a harrowing and sometimes painful process, but it is essential if we are to move forward, in any significant way. 

I didn’t really understand it when I was first presented with the idea of forgiveness. I thought I had pretty much let go so many things that had dogged me through the years. I was strong, I was smart, I didn’t need to forgive. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I should have to. Why should I forgive? Damn those people who hurt me. 

But my life was still idling, I was circling around and around through the same dark forest, going nowhere, and I desperately wanted out. I was told, “Forgive, and move forward.”

I was advised to make a list of all the bad things that happened to me, and who do it to me. And I did, one rainy, introspective day I sat down and put pen to paper. And damn if I wasn’t a crying, sobbing mess within 20 minutes. 

I never went back to that list. That was attempt #1. I became so emotional that I totally relived all the shit that I had denied myself from feeling. And I didn’t want to go back. I threw in the towel and the pen, and went on with life as if I was perfectly fine.

But I wasn’t. 

And it was obvious, because I wasn’t truly happy. And I could feel this unease. And so, I tried again. Stronger and more aware of the feelings that can arise. I sat and wrote my list. And I cried, and I got angry, and I relived all the hurt, but I put the shit on the page. And when I was done, and couldn’t think of any other trespasses against me … I slept.

I avoided looking at that list for weeks. I had recalled much of what I put down, but I didn’t want to look at it, in my own words. I didn’t want to see all my life’s disappointments in my handwriting, I couldn’t look, I didn’t want to see. 

But I kept my list safe, and filed it away for a day when I was feeling brave. And finally, that day did come.

I had an evening alone and a bottle of wine – and I was feeling quite ready to let go. So, I dug out my list and I read each entry out loud, one by one. After each sentence or paragraph, I said “I forgive you.”

I cried a lot that night, but I made a conscious effort to let go, because holding on was doing me no good. And I looked to The Course for guidance, which it always has. And it says:

If what you offer is complete forgiveness you must have let guilt go, accepting the Atonement for yourself and learning you are guiltless 

And I think that’s what it was all about for me, getting over the guilt. And I so wanted to be guiltless. It wasn’t so much what had been DONE to me, it was what I ALLOWED to happen to me, and what I allowed to EFFECT me. 

The forgiveness process that I went through was more about forgiving myself than anyone else. And I would never have guessed that I needed to do that.

We always think external influences are to blame for the unhappy turns our lives take. But now I know, it’s me. All me.

My life was drastically altered by many a series of events. But none has brought me closer to understanding what life is all about than a book: A Course In Miracles.

It’s just a book. One book. And like all other good books, it has a lot to say. But this one says things that I believe are about as close to empirical truth as a person can see in black and white. 

It talks about reality, and the nature of man. It delves into our humanness and our weaknesses and our strengths. It gives great details, fantastic guidelines to remind us of who we are and how we can live our best lives. 

It says that we are sons and daughters of God. It uses very Christian-based verbage about the “Great Source”, the “Creator”, but The Course makes no qualms, the source is Divine no matter what you call it.

I’ve been reading it now for about 10 years, and it never fails to remind me of what I need to remember. These days, I read it mostly in bathroom – romantic, I know. But it’s there and it’s a better option than flipping through pages of a magazine full of things I can’t afford to buy. 

And so I sit and I pee and I learn and remember. And as I urinate it tells me this:

The truth is true. Nothing else matters, nothing else is real, and everything beside it is not there. Let Me make the one distinction for you that you cannot make, but need to learn. Your faith in nothing is deceiving you. Offer your fath to Me, and I will place it gently in the holy place where it belongs. You will find no deception there, but only the simple truth. And you will love it because you will understand it.

Taken out of context, it can seem a bit crazy and off the cuff. One must read this book beginning to end t, for it to make any relatable sense to anyone who hasn’t.

But it’s one of my mainstays. My house wasn’t really a home until I bought a new copy of  The Course. 

I had a nice paperbacked copy years ago, well-worn and dog-eared. I gave it to a handsome young Jehovahs Witness who came knocking on my door one Sunday. It was fall and it was cold. I was slow-cooking a roast beef and the house was warm with the scent of meat and garlic. I invited him in.

I remember clearly having Bob Marley playing, drinking a beer. He was maybe 18 or 19, shivering. We sat at the kitchen counter for about an hour, I made him hot tea and we discussed life and god and his travels.

I think he wanted to stay for dinner, but he looked at his watch and mentioned his elders would be looking for him. He eyed my beer jealously and asked me what I believed in. So, I grabbed up my Course and pushed it across the counter to him. I told him to take it, read it. Enjoy it. Lord knows it wouldn’t contradict anything his faith had taught him…. but it may show him how to see it from a whole other angle. 

It was raining by the time he left, he wasn’t dressed for the weather, but he left smiling, holding up the book to shield his head from the raindrops. He thanked me. 

I wonder whatever became of that book – and that boy.

But it’s a miracle, this life. All of it. And we can choose to make it pleasant or we can choose to make it difficult. And that book should be 10 times thicker than it is, for all it says.

It was a gift, and I’d like to continue to give it. And that’s the miracle.

I’m the 7th child, born on the 7th day of the 8th month. That makes me almost lucky.

I think about my relationship with my family a lot. Probably more than my siblings or my parents think I do. (I could be wrong, but I’m probably not.)

As I get older and find life to be more physically challenging, I think about who came before me, and how they’re getting on. 

I don’t talk to all of my 3 brothers and 3 sisters all that often. I make a point to talk to my Mother at least once a week. And I have 1 or 2 sisters that I communicate with regularly. Other than that – it’s holidays, special events, facebook.

I woke up this morning and showered and dressed. I looked at myself closely in the mirror. Damn, I look old. 

And I’m not getting any younger.

I think about being the youngest of seven children. I have 2 parents and 1 grandmother still living (Thank God).  But I realize I am totally unprepared for the loss of any of them.

And they are surely all to go.

And I am the youngest of 7 children. I have 3 older brothers, 3 older sisters, a mother, a father and a grandmother (96 this year!). And I can honestly say, to lose a piece of this family puzzle will put me in such a state, I cannot fathom. 

I don’t like thinking about these things. But sometimes, when I praying about all my blessings, my mind slips … what if they weren’t there. And then I write blogs like this.

I don’t think I could bear the loss. Not of one. Why would I be placed in such a large family, with so many kind, loving people if I were to watch them all be picked off by fate one by one?

I could not handle that. 

Maybe this is my responsibility, because I am the baby. Death is not something I fear for myself. Pain, yes, I fear pain. Death, no. I want to be selfish and wish I will never watch anyone in my family ever pass. I pray for their happiness and health and safety every night. 

But as I see myself get older, I realize, we are all aging. And we are all finite. And it is this, that when I think too much, that I become saddened at the possibility of all I could lose.

I realize, as blessed as I am … I’m not really lucky at all.

I’ve been recently working on a project for a non-profit Christian group. Basic logo with a Jesus fish, no big deal. But me, not being a fish person, does a little bit of research, checking out all the different variations of the symbol. 

Basically, it looks like this:

I am, however, very interested in symbology. I like the history of words and shapes and how they come to mean what they do. So, me, being all new to this whole Jesus fish thing … I search around on the internet checking out where the whole thing came from.

I ran into a couple of plausible explanations:

• It’s comes from the first letter of the Greek alphabet, Alpha. The Bible says something about, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.” Rev 22:13 
• It comes from how Jesus used fish in his ministry, and so was a direct representation of Him.
• It comes from how Christians were able to identify one another without being persecuted by the Romans, by drawing curved lines in the sand – one would draw half the arc, and the other person would finish it. Apparently like a secret, sandy handshake.

But then I came across this image:

And then I found this image:

And everything began to move in a whole other direction.

Just when I was trying to “Christian myself up” for this logo job, I find myself looking at female sex organs. Who would’ve known? I thought Christians wanted to deny their existence? Hmmm, must investigate further…

But unfortunately, I couldn’t – because of some reason or another and the job had to be put on the back burner for a higher paying gig. And my work day ended and I went home. And it got time to go to bed and I’m flipping around the tv channels. All 12 of them. Five of them are Christian, and 1 is Spanish speaking. So, I choose to drift off to a soft spoken man talking about the Search for the Holy Grail instead of the annoying blonde on HSN hawking handbags.

And I listened to his nice, even-toned voice half falling asleep. I heard him say how it was the bane of many a man, so jewel-encrusted, so holy, so rich, the cup at the last supper, blah, blah, blah. And I had this thought as I was drifting…

The cup. The vessel. The holy grail. Is a woman. After all, aren’t women holy vessels? Don’t we hold the very substance that is necessary to co-create life?

Duh. 

I’m positive I’m not the first one to realize this, and maybe I’m a little behind the times, but I had never thought of this before.I don’t study the Bible and I don’t follow Christianity or any of its tambourine playing sects. It was just odd how the two moments in time coagulated into this one cohesive brain fire. 

The following day, I’m back on the Jesus fish job and I’m having a hard time seriously getting into the whole logo idea. Now I see it as a giant vagina. Now I see what they want plastered all over their letterhead and business cards and envelopes is a pagan symbol for female fertility. But I do the job anyway and reluctantly try to push aside all my desires to school the well-intentioned Christian who hired me.

And now I’m stuck thinking about the Search for the Holy Grail and the symbology of the Jesus fish. I’m circling Christian beliefs around in my mind and trying to remember all my 6 years of Catholic school lessons. They never talked about this, that’s for sure.

I think I know this much:

• Women are the bane of man
• We look best jewel-encrusted and rich (I like this one the best)
• We are holy and receivers of life-giving fluids

Hmmm, I wonder if the delicate and sweet non-profit Christians think about their symbology? I wonder if they look at that fish and just see Jesus. Or do they see the holiness of women? Are they reminded of Jesus feeding many a man with but a few fish or of the females role in creation? 

Christians believe God is the great Creator. But He created women – who also create. And we do it together with men. 

One way or another, I’m just happy I’m a female. Part of me knows I am the Holy Grail.

I see my likeness on many a car bumper driving to work. I’m proud.  Jesus loves me.

There’s this thing called circumstance. And it sucks. No matter how much you prepare and learn, there will always be things outside your control. Such is my life.

Being in love  again is like jumping from a dangerously high cliff that I cannot fall from. It’s scary and comforting both at the same time.

I cannot help how I feel, so I let it be. I step back and watch it.  And Tina in love is a very different creature.

I listen more closely, I pay attention to the details even harder. I am so in tune, that if I were played, I would make only the sweetest sound in the universe. 

I’ve been in love before, I cannot deny that. And I hope that I continue to feel this awesome feeling. But, I know, that each time I’ve felt this – I’ve changed. Love changes people.

Who am I becoming now? I wonder this because I can feel the growing pains. I am changing. 

I’m becoming more patient. More gentle. More understanding. I am becoming more me.

That’s the thing about love – it’s transforming. Here I go again…

I’m madly in love. With my best friend. Who would’ve thought?  Circumstances, as they are, suck.

But I won’t let circumstance decide how this whole thing will play out. I will decide. We will decide. Together, we can do anything – and I really believe that.

It’s all a matter of being patient now. And I suck at patience. But I’m willing to be so, because I know, somehow, eventually, we’ll find a way.

I look forward to seeing how this happens. 

There was a time when I didn’t believe that ex’s could be friends. Actually, there was a time that I didn’t want to be. 

In the last long-term relationship I had, I thought about what would happen if we were to ever split. And the LAST thing I wanted to be was one of THEM. You know, the ex’s that never really go away. They hover and clutter and make things confusing. And while we were together, there were LOTS of them, everywhere we went, out popped yet another ex-girlfriend.

And I hated it. I didn’t hate them. I just hated knowing that there were so many special people in his life before me. It was really silly and insane thinking, but I was jealous of things that happened before I was even in the loop, before I knew there was a loop. And sometimes, it became an issue.

But then we did split up and I did become an ex. But the whole loop had changed and so did my perspective. I understood why there were so many of his ex-girlfriends coming around. They just like one another as people. Makes sense.

And I’m happy that now, even though we are ex-partners and spent 10 years together, that he’s still an important person in my life. We don’t talk very often, and see each other even less. But, he knows me, I know him. We’ve shared something and we continue to be friends, because of that intrinsic bond. I get it now and regret all the hard times I gave him way back when. … I guess it’s just about learning what positive, adult relationships are all about.

I’ve healed a number of relationships with that same outlook in recent years. It’s been a very good thing. There have been so many good people in my life that have played really important roles, taught me very important lessons and they are people I still want to know. 

I like the fact that I can still communicate with my very first love. I like knowing what’s going on in his life and who he’s dating and how work is going. Fact is, he’s really a good guy, always has been. He cheers me up and cheers me on. We’re friends. I’m proud to say that. 

Sure, some people like to meld into obscurity, but I guess I like holding on to the relationships that have depth and meaning and connection. Aren’t those the best kind?

I have come a long way in terms of dealing with my personal issues of jealousy. It used to be such a burden for me. It’s a self-esteem and self-worth thing, you’ve got to feel secure in yourself enough to know that even though there have been others before, the person you’re with now is there because they love you and want to be there.

Jealousy is never a good thing. Not even a little. When it pops up in my mind, I have to stop and think, really look into myself. Because nobody can MAKE me jealous. I just feel that way because there’s something inside me that’s wants to deceive me into thinking I’m not worthy.

And it’s not easy to shake jealousy away, but I must, everyone must. Because it’s a killer of good, gentle, loving, wholesome relationships.

I don’t talk to all of my ex boyfriends, but a lot of them I do. Some more than others, and we all talk about different stuff, the things that are important to us. As we all get older, it’s about family and bills and stress and kids and schedules.  But we’re friends because we can step outside the daily bullshit and talk about ourselves, to someone who understands. I need that, everyone needs that. I’m happy to know that I’ve done a decent job of being myself and letting other people in. I’m happy to know that I can pick up a conversation that hasn’t been touched in years and continue it without a misstep.

I’m happy that I’ve met so many people who I thought were good and was right about them.

I hate being told what to do. There’s no beating around the bush with this pet peeve. I seriously despise someone giving me unsolicited advice, no matter how well-intentioned.

It flips a switch somewhere behind my ears, my entire face gets hot and I can hear my heartbeat in my head. It’s one’s of those things that I know I certainly cannot control: I am going to say something. Something dark and menacing and totally, completely serious. 

Let me illustrate: I’m out playing a game of pool with some friends. Doubles.  I’m carrying the winning team into the second game. It’s been 4 or 5 years since I’ve played a serious game, but I was starting to get my legs back. And then it’s my turn to break. I’ve never been great at breaking, never sucked – but I have a style that I’ve honed over years of growing up in a billiards hall. It’s unique, and it works for me.

But it didn’t work so well for me that night. I didn’t scratch, just a weak, off-putting break. And right then, my counterpart and competition decide it’s time to school me. All shark-like, they got to show the girl how to hold a big ‘ol pool stick. 

I thought my instant look of disinterest and disgust would’ve kept them from going on any further. I can give a really nasty look when I’m unhappy.  But they, being so wrapped up in making sure I knew that they knew more than me, didn’t realize I had absolutely no interest in their lessons. I didn’t ask. I don’t want know. 

And instead of being a major bitch (only a minor one), I took my partner aside and quietly said something to the effect of, “Please don’t ever tell me how to play pool again.”

And HE was offended and told me so over and over again. Did I point out his flaws in the middle of the game, or show him how to properly bank a side shot into the corner? (which he missed consistantly) Did he have any idea of even how to rack the balls properly? No. Did I raise issue? No.  It was a game. A game. I like to win, but more than anything I like to play. By the rules. But we have our own styles – and if we can’t play unimpeded by other peoples perfectionistic ideals, then it just gets boring and tiresome. Fuck that.

That’s what I’m talking about. I have no problem with real authority, in fact, I like it. I’ve always been a fan of teachers and policemen and people in high regard with tough responsibilities.  I like rules, I follow them – red means stop, green means go.

I have a life full of responsibility and sometimes it gets overwhelming. I’m grateful that I have friends and loved ones I can dump on and talk to about my worries with. I just dislike greatly the suggestions. Men tend to do this more so than women – as men always want to “fix”. But I’m not talking or venting so someone can grant me a solution. I’m unloading so I can make space in my own mind to figure it out. That’s what I do. I’m a figure-it-outer.

And I like to think I do a pretty good job. Granted, there are times, lots and lots of them, that I need ideas and help and creative thoughts that I just don’t have. And then, I’ll ask. I’ll inquire as many sources as I can and take in all the information I need and make a decision. But unless I ask. Please, don’t tell me what to do.

My mother, in all her wise and kind ways, has always known this about me. She’s found a very clever way to disarm me when she feels the need to tell me her thoughts on a particular situation. She begins with, “May I make a suggestion?….” and then I have a choice. And I always say yes … well, cause she’s my Mom, and she’s always got really good suggestions.

But that one, simple phrase keeps me from getting offended and gets me informed. Which, is really, the ultimate goal. Even when you’re as stubborn as me.