Fishberry Jam

About five years ago or more I heard the very popular Starfish Story for the first time.  The Starfish Story is an adaptation of an original work called The Star Thrower, written by Loren Eiseley, published in 1969.

In the adaptation, a young girl, unable to change the world, saves the lives of beached starfish, one at a time.  And in doing so, saves their world.

About half a year ago I was watching a youtube video by Lonestar Southern, and she mentioned something called The Starfish Project.  Lonestar Southern is a Texas Fashion Blogger.  The Starfish Project is a line of jewelry you can buy online.  More than jewelry, the Starfish Project is an organization which helps girls and women who have been the victims of sex trafficking is Asia.  They give them a home, they give them counseling and job skills.  The proceeds from the sale of the jewelry, which is also made by these women and gives them a salary, goes to support the ongoing efforts of the project.

Fast forward.  I hadn'…

I know how to spell Deuteronomy,  Obviously; since I just wrote it, and you're now reading it.  But I've known how to spell Deuteronomy since I was five years old.

I didn't go to preschool but started kindergarten at a small private school called Emmanuel Lutheran.  It was located 1/2 a block away from my home and I was able to walk to school every day.  Almost all of the neighborhood children attended the same school.  My parents were very involved.  And everyone knew everyone.

My third grade class on a field trip to Williamsburg, VA
I'm the TERRIFIC one in the front.  
I'm not sure what the magic equation was.  Involved parents.  Small classes.  Excellent curriculum.  Great teachers.  Caring environment.  But every child that attended that school excelled academically and learned most importantly to be kind.

A lot of our reading was from the Bible.  I remember sitting in class, very young, maybe five or six years old, and children struggling through what I like to …

I hadn't really planned on writing about my Dad again, but it's the overwhelming thought pattern in my mind this week, so there's not much use in avoiding it.

Five years ago today was the last time I saw him alive.  He had just been moved to Palliative Care in the hospital and my Mum and I were making arrangements to prepare Hospice at home.  He died the following morning, alone.  My mother and I went home that night, unaware, completely dumbly and naively unaware that this would be his last night on this earth.  He had been in the hospital off and on for about 10 years.  He even died once.  And came back to us.  When he died this time, we told people how unexpected it was, and I think they thought we were crazy.  He was obviously dying.  Well yes the dying part was obvious to us, but the death part.  It never seemed to come.  Until it did.

This time of year is just so laden with memories. He was transferred to ICU on Easter, and we sat vigil for weeks.  He died on the 21s…

Spring is beautiful.  And I hate it.  
On Easter Sunday, five years ago, my Dad was hospitalized.  He remained mostly in Intensive Care until he was moved to Palliative Care and died shortly after he received last rites, on April 21, 2012.
From a Christian perspective, I have always associated Easter with the crucifix.  And when I think of the cross I don't think of eternal life, or born again or being raised from the dead. I just think of suffering and death.
As a Christian I know you're not supposed to view it that way, but I'm just being honest here and telling you how I have related to the imagery throughout my life.
Whether you are a Christian or a Pagan, Easter is supposed to be about life.  Full of symbols of rebirth and renewal.  The resurrection of the cross, eggs, rabbits, greenery, lilies.  So why is that so hard for me to process?  I see the life. I know it's out here, all around us, cyclically, year after year, generation after generation.  
How do I take …

Relatively speaking, I was a child of privilege.  Not in the sense of having things, but in being exposed to ideas and experiences.  Education was paramount in my home.  Whether it was what I was learning in the best schools available, or what I was learning organically in the world; In the words of Auntie Mame, "Knowledge is power".

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Growing up in a nice neighborhood, and attending very good schools, the parents of many of my classmates dressed well, lived in large traditional houses and drove expensive cars, Mercedes seemingly the automaker of choice.  My family also dressed reasonably well, though perhaps not as conservatively.  Our house was of average size, but modern and unusual by community standards.  My father's preferred car of choice was a Volkswagen Beetle.  Powder blue, temperamental and rather beat up looking.  I used to bemoan all of these things:  "Why can't you dress like other parents?  Why is our house so weird?  Why can't you drive a…

This Season

I don't feel like recounting where I've been, but I can give an account of where I am.

Growing up I was taught that a lady doesn't share her age, but let me break with convention and tell you that I turn 47 years young this summer.  I am currently coming to grips with what it means to be 'middle age'.  When I was little I used to ask my Mum, 'Am I beautiful? Am I pretty?'  For some reason it was so important to me that I be so.  And my mother would never give a straight answer.  She would say, something along the lines of  'Looks don't matter. Intelligence matters.  Education matters.  It's what on the inside that counts'.  Eventually I gave up with the questions and the striving to be physically beautiful and started to rely on my insides.  In the process I developed a pretty interesting personality if I do say so myself.  However, somewhere along the way, I realized that I was also attractive.  Not beautiful, but attractive.  …

I started keeping an online journal on April 8th, 2002.  15 years ago.  And I blogged continuously and prolifically for about 10 years.  About five years ago my life went through a massive shift.  Some horrible things happened, and some wonderful things happened.  And now, who I am and where I am today are very very different than they were five years ago, and almost not even recognizable to the place and time I inhabited 15 years ago.

After about a year of blogging, someone made a comment on one of my posts that shocked me and touched me and the words have never been forgotten.

... it suddenly feels very important to get all of this out-to make sure that these words I write now are recorded, are saved here in your journal as a means of reminding someone-myself, you, another random stranger who comes through and reads them day/weeks/months/years from now-that there ARE those of us out here who, even if we can't dwell in that state, we can recognize when we see it, and decry the ide…