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Archive for November, 2010

Colonial Shadow

Worthington Meeting House, Berlin, CT

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Daisy Hug

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R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Two of my boys are young adults, two are teens (and one is 9-going-on-17). Therefore, I get to see and hear about how girls behave around attractive young men.

What are these girls thinking?

Based on a smile and a brief social encounter, handing some relative stranger your phone number? Bombarding some young man with texts after one date? Call me old-fashioned, but I think you’re selling yourselves way short, gals.

I can tell you right now, the fastest way to earn DISrespect is to be over-eager. If you throw yourself at a man, you might get some short-term attention, but because you obviously don’t think much of your own dignity and self-worth, neither will he.

If you’re a woman of value, and intelligence, and character, then you’re worth being pursued. And a man worth his salt wants to pursue; he wants to be forced to earn your attention and affection by being noble and self-controlled.

Men have the capacity to rise to great heights of responsibility; but we are also (especially in youth) hormone-crazed animals that can be tempted by short-term gratification and superficial pleasure. Which far too many women are willing to provide. In the male calculus, easy to bed is easy to despise.

There’s a lot of chaff out there, for sure. The best way to sift through it is to maintain your dignity, tell overly-forward young men to get their hands off you, cease the drama-queen manipulation games, and regain the lost, alluring art of being hard-to-get. Be picky. Why? Because you’re worth it.

The best men want a women who earns respect. They really want (beneath the superficial machismo) a woman who will challenge him to be a better man. They need to prove themselves – to you, and to the man looking back at them in the mirror.

Help them. Help yourself. Be hard to get. Please.

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Grasses

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Cemetery Rays

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It’s true, I admit it. I just don’t have faith.

In a choreographed ballet filled with wonder and mystery, two awesomely-potent cells come together and form a unique life that has never before existed, and within 9 months a brain is formed with more switches than the entire world computer network, a mind and heart are delivered with unmeasurable capacities to see and understand and feel and express and create – and this is the fruit of impersonal processes shaking hands with chance events, over time? I just don’t have faith…

I study the astonishingly complex confluence of conditions that make our home planet habitable, the carefully calibrated algorithms and cycles, the creatively packaged provisions that somehow allow and sustain this vast pool of life – and this breathtaking design was created without a brilliant, kind, glorious, even amusing designer? I just don’t have faith…

I see micro and macro pictures of the universe around me and see that even in the most obscure and hidden corners, we’ve barely plumbed the surface of designed intricacy, with a thousand or a million lifetimes of study yet to be spent unraveling the laws and exceptions, the processes and mysteries, embedded in every quadrant of the surrounding vastness seen and unseen – and all this is to the glory of no-one? I just don’t have faith…

I understand the infinitesimally small chance that a million bowling pins could be thrown up in the air and then all come down in a straight line, yet here I stand with pins lined up on either side of me as far as the the eye can see, and I am to subdue all rational conclusions and just believe it happened because, after all, it happened? I just don’t have faith…

I realize that faith involves embracing certain things as yet personally unproven, on the basis of perceived authority. On that measure, I’m afraid I’m an unbeliever. I stand outside the church of the unchurched; I look from a distance at the edifice of the skeptic; I read the creeds that start, “In the first place, there is no God…” – and I shake my head. I can’t bring myself to believe in the gaping void, when all around me is a living abundance of genius. I just don’t have that kind of faith.

The faith of the denier of God can be very resolute. There’s a lot at stake, after all. Avoiding accountability can lead to evading the obvious. The detective who says, “No evidence of a perpetrator here!” when fingerprints coat the room is probably a suspect, not a true witness. 

So, I will be an unbeliever. Destined to be an outsider, wandering about with wondering eyes and a ravenous mind and a marveling heart, gazing at fingerprints and enjoying the company of other reprobates who have concluded that the faith of the faithless makes no sense to the senses. Incapable of Olympian leaps of faith in nothing, bereft of belief that denial of the obvious earns the badge of brilliance, I gladly leave the pews to those whose altar is only a mirror. Call me an unbeliever! Call me a skeptic! I am all that, and more…I am compelled to be a worshiper.

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Last Splash of Green

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