The Promise Moon

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been a new moon of late — present, rejuvenating, and yet devoid of light.  It’s as if the universe had lined up the stars in just a way to pull the plug, and the best I could do was to watch my imagination, inspiration, and focus swirl away down the drain.

If you watch astrology the way I do, then you know that there are all kinds of interesting things happening in the sky right now.  Crosses, squares, interesting alignments.  I know just enough to know that the heavens reflect the happenings on this planet with amazing accuracy.  We are indeed part of a web, or perhaps many webs, both macro and micro.  When a string gets tugged by Saturn, we feel the pull.  When lines get crossed, we knot up.  When a meteor shower skips over the grid, we can hear the music of the celestial harp.  Of course, you have to listen very carefully.

I am intrigued by it all, but it is the moon that most often captures my imagination.  I ebb and flow in huge shifts of light and darkness just like our constantly hovering lunar mother.  And, of late, I’ve been a little too waning crescent for comfort.

Last night I stood out under my favorite moon, the waxing gibbous.  I know that might seem a little strange.  Isn’t everyone’s favorite the full moon?  A full and glorious, round and pregnant moon is the muse of poets.  It is the altar of nature worshippers.  It is the author of crazy nights for emergency room physicians.  Although this opportunity is rare in an urban world, try to find a dark wood on a full moon night and you will be truly amazed at how brilliantly lit the nocturnal world can be.  But the yang to the yin of a full moon is that there is nowhere to go from here except backwards.  The shadow will slowly creep back in until the moon mother sleeps again in her renewing.

Ah, but a waxing gibbous is full of promise.  It seems to say, “Here I come.  I’m bringing back the light.”  I want to do things under a waxing gibbous.  I want to write and sing and dance and create.  I want to paint pictures, which is truly strange because I really, really can’t do that at all.  Under the waxing gibbous I feel potential swell up within me.  I love the promise moon.  It brings me back.

Random and Somewhat Incoherent Thoughts Regarding Autumn

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

The sun is a fairweather friend. 

We practice Thanksgiving as the nights lengthen to remind us that winter’s not forever,

Spring is damn near guaranteed (eventually),

and death is a beginning, not an end. 

But darkness enfolds us, encroaches further into the productive day.

We are tempted to rise and roost with the chickens,

but then the earth tilts just too far,

Day gets just too short,

Night gets just too long,

Until we punch through the curtain,

embrace the night,

and write poetry in the dark.

Fighting the Good Fight

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

All right, I know I haven’t blogged in, like, forever.  Hey, school’s out for summer.  And besides, it’s too damn easy to throw a quick observation onto Facebook.  But this past week has offered the perfect opportunity for me to get a good rant on.

I’ve been inundated with Jesus freaks this week.  The weather report in Mt. Juliet:  It’s raining Christians (Hallelujah).

Item 1:  Wednesday afternoon.  I was coming out of Target.  Two middle-aged men wearing golf casual clothing and looking incredibly Republican approached me.  One held out a pamphlet and said, “I’d like to give you some information about a local church.”  I started to reach out my hand (a natural impulse when someone hands you something), but then held it up in an Indian “How” posture.  “No, thanks,” I said, smiled and kept walking.

Item 2:  Friday morning.  I was sitting at my desk working when the dogs started barking their fool heads off and somewhere in the midst of all the growling I heard the doorbell ring.  I answered the door (still in my pajamas, mind you) to two people who I KNEW, before they even opened their mouth, were Jehovah’s Witnesses.  They tried to make small talk about my dogs.  You know, door-to-door saleman rule #1: Get them to like you.  Finally I said, “What can I help you with?”  The woman held out a pamphlet.  (Apparently, no one is getting into heaven unless they have a pamphlet.)   I read the headline as she spoke.  It said, “Will you survive the end of the world?”  Since there could have been a slight chance they were environmentalists, I let her speak for a few sentences until her motive became clear.  At her next breath, I interrupted her.  “I don’t proselytize my religion, and I would appreciate it if you gave me the same respect.”   They smiled, said okay, and left.  I think maybe they were pretty used to this response.

Item 3:  Thursday afternoon.  I pick up The Chronicle of Mt. Juliet, our local free weekly newspaper, from the end of the driveway and bring it in to my desk.  On the cover is a blurb which says, “Calling all clergy: The City of MJ needs You (Page 5).”   I was intrigued.  On page five I learned that the city leaders of my little burg were holding a “special city update brief for leaders of all Mt. Juliet churches.”   It was announced that this update would include information on police activities, infrastructure work, finances, and economic development, among other local issues.  The Mt. Juliet City Manager, Randy Robertson, was quoted saying the reason for this meeting was that “these men and women touch and influence the fabric of our city.”

Of course, I fired off a letter to the editor of the Chronicle jumping up and down about the First Amendment and the Jeffersonian principle of separation of church and state.    I argued that this kind of “exclusive” offered to church leaders in a city with an overwhelming preponderance of protestant Christian churches was a de facto “estalishment of religion.”  I wondered in print why the city leaders couldn’t simply hold a town hall meeting open to ALL citizens interested in local politics.   I reminded city leaders that there were indeed those of different religions or even no religion who also constituted the “fabric of our city.”

Now, all we have to do is wait and see if they print it.  Publication of such a letter in this neck of the woods is certainly not a given.

(Sigh.)  I really want to like Christians.  But, they don’t make it easy sometimes.

Good Morning, Angels

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

I just watched an interview with Ryan O’Neal on The Today Show regarding Farrah Fawcett and her medical condition.   From the way it sounds, she may not be with us that much longer.   This Friday night NBC is showing a documentary called, I believe, “Farrah’s Story” airing at 9:00/8:00 central.

And how does this rate as blogworthy for me?  I was far more attracted to Kate Jackson.  And I’m not one to be drawn to mere beauty (i.e., regarding the Miss California flap, my primary response is “Who cares?  She’s a beauty queen, for god’s sake.”)  And yet, that’s what Farrah was for all of us, sans crown.

I was a child of the ’70s.   Anyone of my generation who simply hears the words “Farrah’s Red Swimsuit Poster” can immediately conjure up the image.  She captured our imaginations (and our eyes!) with her unashamed sensuality.   We had pin-up girls in the ’40s and ’50s, but after the era of Betty Grable we entered into the girl-next-door period of the ’60s.  Suddenly female stars had to be wholesome and cute – not pretty.  Think Mary Tyler Moore and Marlo Thomas.  What Farrah did was far more than look beautiful and pose.  To steal words from Justin Timberlake, she brought sexy back.  Regardless of my personal disdain for focusing solely on superficial beauty, Farrah Fawcett is an American icon who helped shape and define a generation more than we probably acknowledge.

And then I watch this interview with Ryan O’Neal and I learn from him what I have known to be true about all women. . . that she is so much more than her trend-setting hairstyle and crystalline eyes.  She is strong and determined and the rock of her family.  She is capable and nurturing and real.

I skipped the Miss USA pageant, but I’ll be watching “Farrah’s Story” on Friday night.  And I’ll probably cry.  Regardless of whether Farrah lasts six weeks or six years or beyond, when she goes, along with her will go a part of my generation.