The Social Porcupine

Once upon a time a knight in shining armor saw a princess drop her handkerchief. He went to help her. But an evil witch had whispered lies into his ears, about how young girls did not need men.  "You can get it yourself,” he told her. He took off his armor. "Princess, wear my armor."  She looked at her soft hands and suddenly felt ashamed for not having gotten her own handkerchief. She tried to pick up the armor. It was too heavy.  Bitterly the knight laughed. "You must not be a real princess," he said.  He left, and she knew his words must be true.  The same witch came to the girl and proclaimed more lies. “You are a strong girl. Why do you care about him? You do not need him. You can pick up your own handkerchiefs. And now you have armor.”  The Princess picked up her handkerchief and cleaned her eyes. She had never craved power before, but now she knew empowerment. She didn’t like how it felt… how it made her feel like a knight. Sh...

Liz Catlin opened her door to a state trooper late one winter night. The four youngest of her fourteen children stood around her. She asked if she could call someone to stay with them.  “That boy looks old enough to watch them,” he said and dragged her roughly, barefoot and without a coat, out into the snow. She asked for clothes, and the state trooper allowed one of the young daughters to pass her a pair of snow boots.  Liz waited in the snow, surveying the scene around here. “Thirty years ago,”  she thought. “I’d be out here in handcuffs because of homeschooling, and they’d be taking the children away, too." They didn't seem to care that the children were underaged. They left them and brought Liz catlin to jail where they chained her to a wall until a warrant could be processed and issued for her arrest.  She spent a day in jail that first time. Her community rallied together and raised enough money for bond, but just a month later she was arrested agai...

"Journeys can be a respite from living" All italics throughout this post are quotes from the book I read while camping in Vermont.   The Child From The Sea by Elizabeth Goudge Hello.  My disappearance has been slow, like a struggling string of smoke that won't spark into fire no matter how much life you blow onto it, yet it persistly exists... just to sting your eyes?  Quite lukewarm in actions, I've sorta just meandered out of the blogging world. I'm sorry for that. I'm not apologizing. I'm simply sorry.  And I'm not going to change my ways. I think the days of schedules for this blog are over. I have built new dreams and desires, but I shan't completely forget this lovely place or all your lovely blogs.  Occasionally I will make an appearance to bless and be blessed. I've gone roadtripping. What does one do while on the road? Mostly sing or cry. Or try not to make fatal mistakes. It's really a miracle that there aren...

Psalm 30:11 "Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness" When the music begins, when people rise to dance and worship and sing, where would you be? Would you laugh as Michal laughed, calling foolish what is delightful to God? Or would joy pull you to dance?  I've attended so many churches these last couple years. I've loved them all, if not only because of the people. It's not so much that I like interesting people, rather I find people interesting. But my heart yearns for something beyond that, beyond the intellect and bickering of denominations. Is it not what we all yearn for? To be one in our fellowship? To weary ourselves with gladness? To feel exilherated long after, fully, not tickled by the Holy Spirit's presence, but immersed in love.  When I was told that this place I visited danced, I laughed. Then I saw. "Oh." I watched the congregation rise, and I remembered M...

  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God Matthew 5:8 Young conservative woman: *gets a job working around rough, worldly men*  OK, you guys. Y'all don't be cursing, and don't be speaking about any filthy things around me. I gotta stay pure. You hear? I need you all to think about that and respect me.     *   *   *  I live this sort of weird conundrum where I embrace and rebel against my upbringing all at once. I don't really bother much trying to convert leftists or communists or atheists. But I do feel   compelled to call out hypocrisy among my fellow Christian conservatives.  deep, deep inside I feel this strong desire to not be that typical conservative gal that's all about my purity. In fact, if I find anything absolutely repulsive and vulgar, it is purity culture.  Not that I find purity disgusting, but that I find the idolization of purity degrading to the true nature of what it means to be pure. I de...

No, you may not see my thoughts.  Yes, it's a wondrous place—there are many pretty things inside my head. A few weird, all interesting and wonderful and happy things. Oh, yes, it's a beautiful place, this place of mine. Like an open meadow? you ask. Well. Yes. Except it's not so open, definitely not meant to be inviting. This place is all mine, after all. I do not have wildflowers free for the picking, nor herbs for the healing; there are no cool streams for your comfort.  I suppose you could describe it— my head —as a dragon's lair, brightly packed with all my hoarded gems.  Mine to keep . Not that I don't let things get out of my space, and away from me.  When I need more space for my lovely, growing collection, I give much to the peasants. Anything that makes my heart unhappy is theirs... yours. Anything worthless must be out so my mind and soul and heart can remain happy and free and elated. I dig to make the hole deeper, safer for my gems... all the excess dirt...

A copper tea kettle whistles on a freshly stoked woodstove, announcing "Time for cheer; 'tis tea time!"  But none hears. It waits, shrilling out invitation, begging to serve. It shakes and jumps. And then it quietens.  The drink it would have offered dissipates, joining the faded smoky stillness of the abandoned livingroom, where but a few moments before held every thing, everyone, needed to make it a room for the living and for beauty.  Blackness grabs at the the undersides of the kettle. Scorched patterns rise up its barren body. It cracks, then explodes into a useless vessel unable to ever hold water again. The fire submits, too, at last accepting that there are none left. None left at all to tend and feed and cherish.