A friend of mine recently summed up her current reality as a "bad-dark-place". It is a terrible destination. I've been there. There are many routes. Sometimes you jump on the crazy train, and don't bail. Sometimes others put you in the boxcar. Sometimes you present your pricey ticket backed by cheap illusions, "all aboard", and have a lovely time, until you get kicked off and deposited in some train depot called desolation.
However you get there, by your own accord or with the help of others, it is a "bad-dark-place". It is palpable. By the time you get there, no amount of rationalizations or delusions can dispel the truth of where you stand.
So what keeps you going? You can't just let yourself deconstruct. So what do you do? Hijack it the hell out? There are multiple routes out of the desolate abandon. But this is where it gets tricky. Are you as the 90's GnR album so adequately expressed, "using your illusions"? Or are you treading out on truth?
This is where you should anticipate some indecision. I don't know about you, but my mind, body, heart, & spirit seem to battle it out for the acquisition, attainability, and ultimate acceptance of a conferred upon truth. Something of a modern day drawn & quartering, rendered by all, a violation of the common good. Until they, finally, all white-flag, in amity. It is a sort of a pulled-in-all-directions, crossroads compromise.
None of my components of self actually desire to meet this dark demise. The ultimate destruction. They won't always agree, but they, eventually, find a way to look to the light. Light & truth.
For me, light sometimes proceeds truth. The physical light somehow creates a ubiquitous aperture to truth. The way in which I can best describe this core, is through the scripture verse found in John 14:6, which reads,
" Jesus saith unto him, I am the way the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."
I do not say this tritely. In conjunction with the Frank Lloyd Wright quote:
"The truth is more important than the facts"
I can say this for a fact. Jesus Christ holds true to his promises.
"Ask , and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you."- Matthew 7:7
And in my experience? That opening referred to has been a portal to light, knowledge, wisdom, answers, hope, light, and peace. Mind, body, heart, & spirit conjoin in a co-op and jump off the "crazy train" heading on the "road to no-where". Although, don't be fooled, the truth-train isn't going to be parked and waiting for your immediate arrival. It often requires a trek through the dark to the light at the end of the tunnel. But, your efforts will be rewarded and you will, eventually, get to the opening. "Seek and ye shall find", truth can sometimes proceed light.
" But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest, that they are wrought in God." - John 3:21
"All Aboard!" Light & truth. Truth & light. This, that, & the other. Whichever it be, you need to hijack the hell on before you find yourself "Goin' off the rails on the crazy train. Hahaha" -Ozzy Osbourne
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Monday, December 16, 2013
Homemade Sin
"At the table of hospitality in the South, kindness is the centerpiece filled with bright roses, rich greenery, and fresh babies breath. The essence of our breed of womanhood is to go out of our way to be kind to others either in word or deed." -Rhonda Rich
True dat Rhonda, except lets stop you right there. I'd like to counter that we replace the babies-breath-rose-bouquet (CrInGe), with something a bit more simple, and a tad less cliche. Wild flowers, daisies, sunflowers, or eclectic branches are friendly and cheap, lets go with those. Preach on sister...
"Pretty is as pretty does," our mamas admonish us from the nursery up, reminding us often that beauty lies in how we treat others and not in the creaminess of our complexions or loveliness of our faces. My momma preached "pretty is as pretty does" as often and as stridently as she touted John 3:16." -Rhonda Rich
16 ¶For aGod so bloved the cworld, that he dgave his eonly begotten fSon, that whosoever gbelieveth in him should not perish, but have heverlasting ilife.
17 For God asent not his Son into the world to bcondemn the world; but that the world through him might be csaved.
18 ¶He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that abelieveth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the bname of the only begotten cSon of God.
19 And this is the condemnation, that alight is come into the world, and men loved bdarkness rather than light, because their cdeeds were evil. -John 3:16-19
"Of course, I welcomed knowing that I could be pretty in actions, since I was so plain in looks. Maybe I wasn't "as ugly as homemade sin," a favorite saying of my people and one I never understood, but my chubbiness, freckles, and overbite would never have put me on anyone's list of beauties.
"Why do you suppose that so-and-so didn't do such-and-such ?" my sister, Louise, will say from time-to-time, talking about someone who has not responded to kindnesses with similar kindnesses.
"Because not everyone thinks the way we do," I'll reply. "Especially like you think."
This line made me simultaneously wince, blush, chuckle, and nod in absolute agreement. We all could use a regular dose of those words:
"Because not everyone thinks the way we do. Especially like you think."
Yet, even if no-one else thinks the way I do on this, I'm still going to take a shot at defining "homemade sin" to myself, to you, to y'all. Preach on sister.
Homemade Sin: those actions which you likely have either a "love/hate" relationship with, or an intense desire for, and/or inclination towards, which when acted upon, brings you into a position of enmity with yourself, and with God. Homemade Sin is either a product or by-product of pride. Often with the acute inability, or reluctance to bend, kneel, and humble to the changes that He/She/We has in store for you. Changes which essentially include sacrificing your "homemade sin." Homemade Sin can often be a type of an indulgence, or a lack of control over emotional responses. It turns the most ugly when it is an action which places us in enmity with others and ourselves. Essentially our souls are our home. And if we craft and cultivate, and ultimately indulge in an act which places us at war with others, and with an element of our very self, such as our heart, mind, spirit, or body, then aren't we essentially sinning against our home? Against our self? Homemade sin is a form of self-deception. Some people will never feel at war for their self. For their soul. If you haven't? You've lived in a different existence than I. For me, the decisive rejection of and repentance from "homemade sin" is deep-dark-dirty soul work. Still, there is sacred ground in treading it. Especially, if it means putting your homemade sin on the pyre. And if I haven't mentioned already? I'm no pyro.
-as defined by, Janelle Jensen Fritz
Homemade Sin: those actions which you likely have either a "love/hate" relationship with, or an intense desire for, and/or inclination towards, which when acted upon, brings you into a position of enmity with yourself, and with God. Homemade Sin is either a product or by-product of pride. Often with the acute inability, or reluctance to bend, kneel, and humble to the changes that He/She/We has in store for you. Changes which essentially include sacrificing your "homemade sin." Homemade Sin can often be a type of an indulgence, or a lack of control over emotional responses. It turns the most ugly when it is an action which places us in enmity with others and ourselves. Essentially our souls are our home. And if we craft and cultivate, and ultimately indulge in an act which places us at war with others, and with an element of our very self, such as our heart, mind, spirit, or body, then aren't we essentially sinning against our home? Against our self? Homemade sin is a form of self-deception. Some people will never feel at war for their self. For their soul. If you haven't? You've lived in a different existence than I. For me, the decisive rejection of and repentance from "homemade sin" is deep-dark-dirty soul work. Still, there is sacred ground in treading it. Especially, if it means putting your homemade sin on the pyre. And if I haven't mentioned already? I'm no pyro.
-as defined by, Janelle Jensen Fritz
Monday, June 10, 2013
Art-N-About
On our first day of summer vacay we took a field trip to an art museum. It wasn't until we arrived for our personal tour by my docent friend at The Kimball Art Museum that I realized it was maybe just a tad ambitious to take a two year old on a guided tour of the permanent collection gallery. On the drive there my six year old also made it clear that this was not his number one field trip venue as he said, "Looking at paintings is not my favorite, it is your favorite, Mom." I couldn't really argue with that, but I also couldn't turn down a personalized free tour directed to young children. I must say I felt quite a bit better as I witnessed her having to pry her own 6 year old off her legs after the first tour and cram him into our friends mini-van so that she could begin our tour. This wasn't my 6 year old and 2 year olds first time in an art museum. That being said we've had mixed experiences. Ranging from an embarrassing display at The Modern where we were essentially kicked out, to a fun filled afternoon during the Bellini exhibit at The Kimball during their Family Festival. Parents, as you know, it can go either way. Art museums are not the only place that the pendulum swings on behavioral bliss to tantrum turmoil with a toddler in tow. So sometimes we take the plunge and hope for the best.
We landed on the best side of things this time around. Even as we started with a wardrobe compromise that resulted in an eclectic pairing that would have been less noteworthy had I just allowed Z his initial selection. For some reason I thought perhaps on a cultural outing we could for-go the basketball shorts for one afternoon. So Z then decided that he should get to chose to wear his cowboy hat. Far be it from me to squelch his artistic expression. Besides, it proved prop worthy during his theatrics at the statue out back the Kimball. That is until he began pontificating the art. His sized up assessment was, "Mom, this statue is a woman."
"Oh, how do you know?" I don't know why I prompted, I knew perfectly well why, I guess I just wanted to know how his critical thinking was coming along!?
"Because it has breasts." Right you are son. His critical thinking is coming along fine. And...now why don't we head inside for the tour. During which, I was pleasantly surprised that my six year old stayed intent with the group and chose a Caravaggio as his favorite piece. We Fritz's love our rebels.
My two year old made it through the gallery without any of his screeching sounds that we are attempting to remove from his "I'm displeased" repertoire. I don't know when he transitioned from a normal cry to this high pitch ear hell, but I'm praying eradication is possible. He even sat serenely on the ground and doodled on a paper while I listened to a fascinating history of the French painter Elisabeth Louise Vigee Le Brun, the only female artist on exhibit in the permanent collection at The Kimball.
After we exited the gallery we went over to the gift shop to browse and were pleasantly surprised with the hard to find off-line and year-waiting-period at the library "Elephant & Piggie" books by Mo Willems. A pre-school educator friend of mine has children that hoard these books in her classroom. The pictures are silly, and the stories simple enough for my Kindergartner graduate to read by himself. He read through a couple and I let him choose one to bring home. He chose "Happy Pig Day!"
Not only did we think the book was fun but the idea of a pig having his own special day resonated as just last Fall, my then five year old declared one morning in October, "We already had Mothers Day and Fathers Day. Today should be Kids Day!" And so it began. While he was at school I painted a banner (very quickly, please don't judge my talent by this.) And put out Oreo's with sprinkles over-top. Ta-da, Kids Day!
Our final stop on our art circuit is a must with children. The large sculpture outside The Modern in Fort Worth. It is genius and if I had the funds? I would commission one for a playground in every major city. You enter the center of the sculpture and it creates an echo chamber. My kids happily stomp, run, shout, jump, dance, and laugh in pure joy.
FYI: If you do choose to play the video of them dancing, then I might suggest turning the sound way down or off. You will miss their dubstep beat, but you will also dodge the amplified version of the two year old screech.
Something about the interior of the statue even transforms adults into a trance of child-like wonder. Instead of turning pretentious crusty looks on these exploring little souls they usually join in clapping, stomping, and jumping. It is a sculpture that is an instant smile maker. As are "friend fries" from In-N-Out to end our Art-N-About field trip.
We landed on the best side of things this time around. Even as we started with a wardrobe compromise that resulted in an eclectic pairing that would have been less noteworthy had I just allowed Z his initial selection. For some reason I thought perhaps on a cultural outing we could for-go the basketball shorts for one afternoon. So Z then decided that he should get to chose to wear his cowboy hat. Far be it from me to squelch his artistic expression. Besides, it proved prop worthy during his theatrics at the statue out back the Kimball. That is until he began pontificating the art. His sized up assessment was, "Mom, this statue is a woman."
"Oh, how do you know?" I don't know why I prompted, I knew perfectly well why, I guess I just wanted to know how his critical thinking was coming along!?
"Because it has breasts." Right you are son. His critical thinking is coming along fine. And...now why don't we head inside for the tour. During which, I was pleasantly surprised that my six year old stayed intent with the group and chose a Caravaggio as his favorite piece. We Fritz's love our rebels.
 |
| The Cardsharps. Caravaggio. 1595. The Kimball Art Museum, Permanent Collection. |
My two year old made it through the gallery without any of his screeching sounds that we are attempting to remove from his "I'm displeased" repertoire. I don't know when he transitioned from a normal cry to this high pitch ear hell, but I'm praying eradication is possible. He even sat serenely on the ground and doodled on a paper while I listened to a fascinating history of the French painter Elisabeth Louise Vigee Le Brun, the only female artist on exhibit in the permanent collection at The Kimball.
 |
| Self-portrait. Elisabeth Louise Vigee Le Brun. 1781 |
Not only did we think the book was fun but the idea of a pig having his own special day resonated as just last Fall, my then five year old declared one morning in October, "We already had Mothers Day and Fathers Day. Today should be Kids Day!" And so it began. While he was at school I painted a banner (very quickly, please don't judge my talent by this.) And put out Oreo's with sprinkles over-top. Ta-da, Kids Day!
FYI: If you do choose to play the video of them dancing, then I might suggest turning the sound way down or off. You will miss their dubstep beat, but you will also dodge the amplified version of the two year old screech.
Something about the interior of the statue even transforms adults into a trance of child-like wonder. Instead of turning pretentious crusty looks on these exploring little souls they usually join in clapping, stomping, and jumping. It is a sculpture that is an instant smile maker. As are "friend fries" from In-N-Out to end our Art-N-About field trip.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Hells Bells, a cowboy!?
Last week my Facebook newsfeed blew up with links to Jen Hatmakers blog post "Worst End of School Mom Ever." I laughed with the worst of them, and felt more than a twinge of commradorie in the humoristic realities of the modern momma eking out my first Kindergartners final stretch.
Why on that very morning before the infamous link circulated, his right strap on his Batman backpack unstitched, and was dragging on the ground. No matter, I just "hulked" it off with my bare hands, threads flapping in the breeze, and informed him that he had 6 days left to wear it across his body with one strap.
About a week ago, his once a week purchase of school lunch switched to me hunting down change every other day. I'm sure the lunch lady in the cafeteria wants to strangle me. Recently my husband went and met Z for lunch for the first time this year. Afterwards the man entered our home with a glazed look of overload, walked directly to our bed, laid down and stared blankly at his iPhone for a good hour. I don't think he would ever recover from counting out $2.35 in quarters, dimes, and nickles as the noise level in the elementary school cafeteria climbed off the charts. If I owe any staff member an end of the year a gift, it's probably her. Maybe I should present her with her own brown bag, adult contents included.
All-in-all we were still riding out the year in a fairly operative manner, considering. I can't really say we were "awesome" on day one. We made it to school with everything, except any kind of camera. As we walked Z inside we passed hoards of parents and children, cameras flashing, and pictures snapping. I sort of thought we should be walking on red carpet, but I didn't really twinge with any 'worst parent shame'. The thing was I didn't really care. I got a great smiley excited picture of him with my phone right before we left the house, which was why my phone was probably lying on the kitchen counter. I didn't really need photographic proof we had made it in one piece outside the brick building.
Today was his Kindergarten graduation. We had made it. Or so I thought. Just last week I had laughed as Jen described her "fresh hell" of piece-mealing together a last minute Benjamin Franklin costume for Living History day. You'd think it would've prepared me for the moment my husband burst through the door this morning after dropping Z off. "Don't you answer your phone?!! His teacher is calling us. He's not supposed to be in khaki's and a polo, he is supposed to be a cowboy!"
HELLS BELLS, a cowboy. Now why didn't I think of that? I have since scoured my email and we were somehow by-passed on that correspondence. And my son? Well I found out the "surprise" at graduation that he had been referring to all weekend. So take it from me parents, next time your Kindergartner tells you they have a surprise part in a performance? It might be wise to extract the info, pronto. Or else you will be surprised. You will be running around with hot rollers in your hair conjuring up the makings of a cowboy from the four corners of your home. All I can say is "praise" we weren't the chef, or the policeman. We would've been stranded up a creek.
My husband felt as if his world had just warped into crazy town. He doesn't get the modern day parent protocol. He could barely even comprehend why we were holding a Kindergarten graduation in the first place. As we pulled up to the school, I was clutching the cowboy garb and ready to make a mad dash for the entrance. Suddenly I saw sun-dressed mothers in heels, and exclaimed in dismay, "Oh no, look at all the moms, I'm not wearing a dress, only platform shoes." He looked at me and said, "are you all kidding yourselves!? I don't even know who you are this morning." To which I rolled my eyes, made a mental note to never put this man on costume duty, and leaped from the car bee-lining it to the principal. She was already outside engaged in arguments with angry parents who hadn't got the memo for the pre-registration security process for admittance to the graduation. Whew, at least we dodged a bullet there, since I had somehow gained access to that elite form and submitted it. She looked at my apologetic anxiety heavy face and the cowboy garb. She unaffectedly reached out for the bundle and asked "What class?" Whew. We did it. We made it in time to outfit our cowboy for the adorable beyond words musical program of "What I Wanna Be, What I Wanna Be, What I Wanna Be When I'm Big Me."
I don't even care that a cowboy isn't my top choice for his chosen profession, I'm just so relieved he was given the part that we could scrap together today. You know, so his "surprise to us" wasn't ruined and all. We learned as he walked across the stage that his chosen profession is to be a Secret Agent. The weapon technology is supposedly top rate. How I love my amazingly imaginative 6 year old!
After the program, we were ushered outside to enjoy a punch and cupcake reception. It was there that I was redeemed from the low man on the totem pole of the worst parent spectrum. Not that I'm keeping track. But my favorite quote was from a young Kindergartner girl from another class. As she sipped her lemonade, she loudly announced, "It tastes like a margarita!"
Why on that very morning before the infamous link circulated, his right strap on his Batman backpack unstitched, and was dragging on the ground. No matter, I just "hulked" it off with my bare hands, threads flapping in the breeze, and informed him that he had 6 days left to wear it across his body with one strap.
About a week ago, his once a week purchase of school lunch switched to me hunting down change every other day. I'm sure the lunch lady in the cafeteria wants to strangle me. Recently my husband went and met Z for lunch for the first time this year. Afterwards the man entered our home with a glazed look of overload, walked directly to our bed, laid down and stared blankly at his iPhone for a good hour. I don't think he would ever recover from counting out $2.35 in quarters, dimes, and nickles as the noise level in the elementary school cafeteria climbed off the charts. If I owe any staff member an end of the year a gift, it's probably her. Maybe I should present her with her own brown bag, adult contents included.
All-in-all we were still riding out the year in a fairly operative manner, considering. I can't really say we were "awesome" on day one. We made it to school with everything, except any kind of camera. As we walked Z inside we passed hoards of parents and children, cameras flashing, and pictures snapping. I sort of thought we should be walking on red carpet, but I didn't really twinge with any 'worst parent shame'. The thing was I didn't really care. I got a great smiley excited picture of him with my phone right before we left the house, which was why my phone was probably lying on the kitchen counter. I didn't really need photographic proof we had made it in one piece outside the brick building.
Today was his Kindergarten graduation. We had made it. Or so I thought. Just last week I had laughed as Jen described her "fresh hell" of piece-mealing together a last minute Benjamin Franklin costume for Living History day. You'd think it would've prepared me for the moment my husband burst through the door this morning after dropping Z off. "Don't you answer your phone?!! His teacher is calling us. He's not supposed to be in khaki's and a polo, he is supposed to be a cowboy!"
HELLS BELLS, a cowboy. Now why didn't I think of that? I have since scoured my email and we were somehow by-passed on that correspondence. And my son? Well I found out the "surprise" at graduation that he had been referring to all weekend. So take it from me parents, next time your Kindergartner tells you they have a surprise part in a performance? It might be wise to extract the info, pronto. Or else you will be surprised. You will be running around with hot rollers in your hair conjuring up the makings of a cowboy from the four corners of your home. All I can say is "praise" we weren't the chef, or the policeman. We would've been stranded up a creek.
 |
| TWO-HEADED MONSTER |
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Faux Guac
My family are often the recipients of my avant garde flair for experimentation. On the most regular and utilitarian basis, this occurs in my kitchen. I am a proponent of family meals, table dinners, and prepare dinner on a regular basis. Several times a week with some intermittent sandwich nights or something equally as low-key interspersed. It leaves me enough recuperation to keep the cycle in operation. I follow rules, but don't usually follow recipes. Except on the rare event I attempt bread. I have no feeling for it, so it requires that I follow explicit instructions.
Occasionally I access the blogosphere to affirm or discount a new idea that has popped in my head. I have to say my successes trump my fails. Still, I never post recipes, and the thought of taking pictures during the cooking/baking process makes me shiver. I appreciate the lovely photo spread cooking demo photography, but there is no way that is going to happen here. Photography is not my forte, neither is the stop & start of the creative process. Easily apparent to the few of you that endure my iphotography, and its pure lack of aesthetic quality on a regular basis.
Today at a pre-summer pot-luck lunch with moms and kids, I realized that I may even have less "fails" than I once thought. Usually my critics are two young boys and a man that has foodie tenets but with a staunch preferential for meat & potato varieties. So naturally when I make anything vegetarian, its not usually met with overwhelming cheers and fist pumps in the air. (I'm not really a vegan gal, although I do have a few vegan recipes up my sleeve.)
So here is the on-the-fly faux guacamole recipe that my husband and boys rated as an utter fail, but my fellow mom friends lauded as a success:
Faux Guac
(Spinach-bean dip)
4-6 cups of fresh spinach
1 can of black beans
1-2 green onions
juice from 1/2 a lime
1-2 tsp of cumin
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 TBSP of chopped cilantro
1/2-1 TBSP of Srirachi (Rooster Sauce)
1/4 cup of sour cream
Add spinach, onion, cilantro, lime juice to a food processor. Blend.
Add black beans, cumin, srirachi sauce, and S&P to mixture. Blend until smooth.
Fold in sour cream until the dip lightens to a faux guac color.
Serve with veggies, meat, or chips.
Occasionally I access the blogosphere to affirm or discount a new idea that has popped in my head. I have to say my successes trump my fails. Still, I never post recipes, and the thought of taking pictures during the cooking/baking process makes me shiver. I appreciate the lovely photo spread cooking demo photography, but there is no way that is going to happen here. Photography is not my forte, neither is the stop & start of the creative process. Easily apparent to the few of you that endure my iphotography, and its pure lack of aesthetic quality on a regular basis.
Today at a pre-summer pot-luck lunch with moms and kids, I realized that I may even have less "fails" than I once thought. Usually my critics are two young boys and a man that has foodie tenets but with a staunch preferential for meat & potato varieties. So naturally when I make anything vegetarian, its not usually met with overwhelming cheers and fist pumps in the air. (I'm not really a vegan gal, although I do have a few vegan recipes up my sleeve.)
So here is the on-the-fly faux guacamole recipe that my husband and boys rated as an utter fail, but my fellow mom friends lauded as a success:
Faux Guac
(Spinach-bean dip)
4-6 cups of fresh spinach
1 can of black beans
1-2 green onions
juice from 1/2 a lime
1-2 tsp of cumin
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 TBSP of chopped cilantro
1/2-1 TBSP of Srirachi (Rooster Sauce)
1/4 cup of sour cream
Add spinach, onion, cilantro, lime juice to a food processor. Blend.
Add black beans, cumin, srirachi sauce, and S&P to mixture. Blend until smooth.
Fold in sour cream until the dip lightens to a faux guac color.
Serve with veggies, meat, or chips.
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