I'm making the move from VOX to Wordpress. Somewhat a tabula rasa for me, I wanted a fresh premise, a newfound purpose or focus to this blog. I came up with Lotus Uprising.
Lotus is symbolically sacred in several religions. It is a flower that thrives in the murky, impure waters, and yet it is pure and white, untainted. The lotus parallels the ideal state for the mind and soul.
Uprising is for precisely that. A shakeup. A jostling of my person in every facet. In hopes I will discover what lies deep within me. In hopes that others will equally find themselves in moments of deep introspection or questioning of thoughts after reading my words. Granted, that's quite a high standard I'm placing for myself. But, at its minimalist purpose, it is the home for my words, thoughts, and mental vomit. Whether or not it'll deter much from what my blog at VOX has been, I'm unsure. But I've come to the point where I need a new beginning. VOX chronicles much of my college years, and there are so many ties to these entries that are connected to some of the most unpleasant moments and relationships of my life. It's time to move beyond it.
The new creation: http://lotusuprising.wordpress.com
Walking along the sidewalk of Hwy 61, Kathy and John Gardner silently advocate their Pro-Life message. She pushes a stroller of two baby dolls and a lamb stuffed animal with a sign attached stating, "Stop Abortion Now." Her husband carries the same sign, and has a baby doll adorned with a lace bonnet and an inked tear drop on its left eye.
Drivers honk as they pass, some in agreement, others roll down a window and yell, "Pro-Choice!" before speeding away. "These girls threw eggs at us one time," Kathy said, "But a car got hit instead." These reactions no longer unnerve the Gardners. John's seventeen years of activism have resulted in a myriad of reactions. "A cop lied on him once," Kathy started, "In court. Lied in court." Mr. Gardner recalled the incident saying the officer said he had leaned too much of his body into a person's car and was walking in the middle of the street protesting, but John claims none of it was true. Another time, a person fired a BB gun on him, leaving small welts for months. There have been other memorable reactions, such as a man that slipped five dollars into his pocket one day. "I know he didn't agree with the cause," said John, "but I think he liked my dedication. And I didn't want to preach too much because that'd just push some away. I don't want to turn a soul away from one day being saved."
Asked about his initial motivation to begin Pro-Life activism, Mr. Gardner says he's never personally known someone whose had an abortion. Before becoming a born again Christian, John was an alcoholic, facing the same problems his father had. "I wasn't fit to be a woman's husband," he said, "But then I got saved. And I felt a call to preach." He began his plight on the steps of the State House in Columbia, South Carolina. After a rally on the anniversary of Roe VS Wade in 1991, Mr. Gardner felt he was called to the cause. He returned several days later with a simple anti-abortion sign, and his mission has persisted ever since. Branching out from their hometown of Columbia, the Gardners travel every Monday, Thursday and Saturday to another location in Charleston, Greenville, or Florence. When not on the road, John spends time trying to gain support from government representatives. He had an ally in House representative Ralph Davenport, who attempted to push two bills through. The first bill was the Right to Life Act, and the second was to construct a monument for unborn children. Legislative details and a drawing of the monument are included in Mr. Gardner's newsletter from his organization Voice of the Unborn, which he hands out to drivers during red lights. The purpose for the monument is outlined in the newsletter: "We will never outlaw abortion until we become repentant and sorrowful for the awful sin we have committed. This monument will express our remorse and sorrow for allowing these murders to go on for years. People will come from all over the world to see this monument as a result. Many children will be saved from murder."
When asked about other possible methods to go about their cause, Kathy and John discussed previous ties to other Pro-Life organizations and counseling women on-site at clinics. Mrs. Gardner conveyed her frustrations with a Catholic activism group who she felt were pursuing "Band-aid fixes, but nothing ever got done." After the director of the organization spoke out against the monument bill, the Gardners severed ties with the group. As for counseling, the majority of women still decided to terminate their pregnancies, which Mr. Gardner expressed pained him greatly, but the small amount who changed their decisions gave him great joy. Kathy described a neighbor whose daughter had become pregnant, and originally intended to seek an abortion, but learning of John's activism, changed her mind. Mrs. Gardner said they bought several outfits for the newborn; happy to see they had made a change. Mr. Gardner remembered another occasion when he was out on the corner of road protesting. He said one young woman waved him over to her car and had a toddler in the backseat. She told him that several years ago she had seen him on the street with his message, and it was because of him that her daughter was born.
In the beginning, John focused on protesting at clinics where Dr. Jessie Floyd worked. One day, Dr. Floyd was sideswiped by another vehicle. He was killed on impact, but his grandson survived. Mr. Gardner said he didn't take joy in Dr. Floyd's death, but that he took joy in the fact that no more babies would be murdered. He estimated that Dr. Floyd performed over 30,000 procedures in the time John knew him. Mr. Gardner said he thought the wreck had a message, "God saved the grandson. He saved the child." Since Dr. Floyd's death, Kathy says four of his five clinics have shutdown that he started.
Throughout Mr. Gardner's activism, he has predominately worked alone. It is only within the last couple of years that his wife, Kathy, has joined him. When asked about her motivation to be a part of John's message, she said for her it's about saving babies. "Have you ever seen pictures of babies after abortions? The babies look like they been torn to pieces. Arms and legs pulled off." This is an image she reverts back to repeatedly when discussing their mission. She makes a point to wear a shirt with a picture of her three year old grandson ironed onto the front; so people will see the child in her life.
Whether or not one agrees with their beliefs, the Gardners' method of activism is nonviolent and is protected by the First Amendment. It is surprising the aggressive reactions such passive activism has received, which brings to light a concerning facet within the divide between Pro-Life and Pro-Choice groups and individuals. Since when has taking a side caused a wall prohibiting communication and dialog to emerge?
I lay awake, eyes shut, imagining the crackle of my ceiling. My fingers upon the keys of a baby grand, playing a melody I never could. And my mouth opens to sing, to voice a song deep in me. But I never know the words, no Greek chorus singing behind me. At times all I project is a soul shaking cry, but no words, raw emotive sound. I think myself tall, long legs, and a dress that breathes air into its thread. Walking onto a balcony, I step up, standing on the edge. I turn and fall back, into the arms of nothingness. Landing into a pool of water, feeling myself plummet like a boulder. Imagine tense lungs knowing they hold on to the last breath, and cloth and hairs flow with the waters. The cold shock, a sting against the skin. And I sit like a babe in womb, waiting. Do I drown, or do I rise?
This vision has played a hundred times in my mind. Ever since last summer. I think myself submerged, eyes open, seeing the light stream in from above, yet I find myself hesitant to follow it, yield to it, embrace it.
I think of voice. Hear me! I fight me like a beast. See me! And I refuse to take notice of the reflection. How long can I wrestle my own person. My mind wanders, lost in my imagination. Reality is a bitter bite. I live it enough to go unnoticed. But my self narration, my vivid visions and concoctions, the words, the images, it streams through me like a story haphazardly written. Linear is exiled, and I find myself leaping from planes of thoughts, concepts of time, to live in the ideas that never age nor die.
And I float six feet under, murky waters of the mind. Will I rise?
A friend introduced me to Boingboing a year ago. I found the alternative news to be unique, offering articles on topics not seen in mainstream media. However, this concept of open arms fringe media seems to have a harsh bias against religions. From my brief time as a BB reader, I have witnessed most criticism of religion through articles about Scientology. But skimming the feed today, I found an article about growing up Amish. The excerpt highlighted in BB's news involved a succinct list of positive, and precise, malicious barrage of cons:
"-The rape, incest and other sexual abuse that run rampant in the community
-Rudimentary education
-Physical and verbal abuse in the name of discipline
-Women (and children) have no rights
-Religion–and all its associated fear and brainwashing–as a means of control (and an extremely effective means at that)
-Animal abuse"
This piece seems bitterly anti-religious, and focuses on likely everything potentially negative. This same list can be applied to the US culture and society. The US has one of the highest rates of rape and sexual abuse for an industrial nation. Education runs the gamut from poor to excellent, granted the best is usually a luxury for upper middle and high classes. Physical and verbal abuse is likely more pervasive than most realize. Women and children still lack many rights. And political and national propaganda is used as a means of control. I point to the use of fear of future terrorist attacks as a way to pass such things as the Patriot Act, which strips constitutional rights and privacy in the name of "national security," as well as starting and sustaining an 8 year war in Iraq that is nowhere near being abandoned. As for animal abuse, I would examine the methodologies for slaughtering animals. This list can also be applied to other religions and cultural systems.
Another fact that is somewhat alluded to but then declared "false" is that there is a choice to be Amish. During the mid to late teens, teenagers typically go into a liminal state. Known as Rumspringa, this period usually lasts anywhere from 6 months to a year (sometimes more). During this period, teens are granted the freedom to live like the English in dress and lifestyle. I would recommend the documentary The Devil's Playground to watch how Amish teens live and cope in the English world during this limbo state. Many will experiment with drugs, drink, live outside the Amish community, drive, etc. After the period of Rumspringa concludes, teens are to decide if they want to remain in the English world or return to the Amish community. If they choose to remain in the English society, they will be considered to have chosen to live in the profane (as opposed to the sacred) realm, and will have to sever ties with the Amish community (including their family).
Granted, the choice to live in the English culture will potentially sacrifice all the Amish teens have known and the people they love, but there are those that have walked away, and a high percentage actually return to the community. This liminal period is granted because the point is to be assured that the choice to live Amish is a conscious choice and that when one returns, will be dedicated and better comprehend why they live the way they do.
And I have to say, the portion of "Escaping the Amish" that is being presented in public domain makes me quite skeptical. The examples or precise moments in life that are detailed really are somewhat generic. As a child, my father would have to take a branch from a rose bush and take it to his mother to be beaten, which isn't a far cry from a piece of chopped wood. The portion detailing a brief contemplation of suicide seems somewhat amiss, and I find it odd that a female was taught to hunt and shoot as that isn't common in Amish culture.
There can be critique in regards to gender roles and prejudices in Amish culture. During Rumspringa, females are more likely to retain traditional dress rather than English attire, and are more likely to stay at their home in the Amish community rather than live off site. But this isn't always the case.
I would hope that BB would offer a spectrum of views on religion, but religious themed articles seem to focus around a negative interpretation and perpetuation of religion. Also, these articles are often not based on academic analysis or methodologies; so, I hope BB is confident in the blogging excerpts and news they post for thousands to view. Take responsibility in offering a more balanced framework in presenting analysis and critique of religions. I would expect better and more ethical standards from a news outlet.
Today the heavens mourned, wept like a heartbroken mistress. Do you too feel betrayed? And still I look up at the sky, gray and melancholy. But nothing comes. Rain meeting metal and road, fits of lightning and thunder.
Still I am bothered. Death, a perplexing state. Justification is a skilled art in such morose terrain. But it leaves me unsettled when I hear a death was Needed. Needed? Through this death will bring others close to god. The logic rattles me. And I peer up again, wondering to myself how it has managed to become a divine masterpiece.
She was not a lamb for your slaughter.
I thought this over and over for two days now. I repeat it like a prayer. And each time I mouth it, this deep conviction of mine, it stirs me madly.
I saw this film in a fit of ugly mood. I wanted isolation, and planted myself in a chair, hoping this little robot could turn me.
Seeing the preview for the film alone stirred an emotion in me. Those wide eyes staring into a star speckled sky. His name a brief narration, his voice itself seemed awkward like a lanky teen, a hint of struggle and perseverance.
In a desolate Earth, Wall-E found beauty. He converted garbage, humans' pollution, into a literal creation and city, a unique progressive piece of art. And in sifting through the clutter, he found relics. Pieces of beauty that survived beneath it all. At first, I thought it almost naive nostalgia for a culture he never knew, but only had pieces to the puzzle. But in truth, Wall-E was able to extract the best attributes of human culture. The prominent one being love. A need for interaction, affection, an intimate relationship between two that is unique. And this was what he longed for, and throughout the entire film desired the small yet momentous act of having his love hold his hand.
But another theme drew my focus more. The power of Hope. Wall-E never falters in this, and his actions arise from the hope that there is more to the place he lives, more to life he lives, and with the meeting of Eve, the hope of love. This also becomes embodied within the hero's elixir: the plant. It is life that has sustained itself in the lifeless. It is the hope for a new beginning between the partners of humans and Earth. And it is Wall-E who must carry out the journey to bring life back to the culture he has only come to know through random remnants.
It seems with every encounter that a being has with Wall-E, he drastically changes their life or perception. Eve's transformation takes longer, but in the end, she comes to understand the concept of love, and the need to have Wall-E with her, to remember her, to acknowledge her as uniquely related to him in a way that no other is. Wall-E's encounter with the cleaning bots alters one bot's path. He literally hops off the track he is meant to follow in order to pursue Wall-E's steps, and to clean them up. But this act of defiance from his protocol in order to pursue a need, an obsession, leads to his eventual development to self-thought. During his time on the ship, Wall-E meets three humans, all of which he somehow disturbs or awakens from their entranced states of laziness and oblivion. At the moment that these characters meet Wall-E, they begin to be transformed. They start to be introspective, are fueled by desires they have not known. The desire for knowledge, the desire to have interaction and love, to make decisions independently rather than being mere sheep in a flock.
However, Eve is the difficult one. Rigid, meant for one mission, she fends off Wall-E for a good while. It is only when her memory is recollected that she truly sees Wall-E. The bot who watched over her, stayed by her, followed her light years away from his home, all to ensure her safety and be with her. Even then it isn't enough to complete Eve's transformation. In the hero's journey, it is typical for a death and rebirth to occur. It is necessary because only then can the new hope come to fruition, become a reality rather than an abstract thought and emotion. And Wall-E is not free of this in his journey. It is only when Wall-E has gone through a form of death, death to his memories and personality, a death or separation from Eve, it is then that she realizes Feeling, she understands Love. Because it takes the absence of Wall-E, of his recognition of her, for her to realize how much she needs it and wants it. It is at the moment that Wall-E is dying that she no longer cares about her original mission. Her mission has become to help her love. She has transformed into a being that is independent and makes choices, and knows love.
Though there are other important themes woven into the film, these are the two that are at the foundation of all the others: Hope and Love. From those will right action and right thought come. They are pure emotions that foster pure intention and pro-activism in life and in relationships with others and the world.
So it all begins with hope and love...
I got caught in reveries, memories that have yet to form outside my mind, in images of color and light. My eyes never on the road. Always scanning the texture and hues of walls, taking note in the time of day and how light hits brick bodies. Never can you know the curves of a body until it engulfs the screen and you trace it gingerly, a free lasso, steady surgeon hand, and you see how the cheek convexes, the underlying tints of skin, a smile often missed in the eye of a lens or given to a fleeting moment. It is beauty, at the core of nature, it makes this journey worth the trek.
I cried for a soul I don't know, but I heard her voice. Nothing else required but a song, and it revealed her.
And I wonder if this is the balance. For every hundred that cry, a hundred are to be laughing. For every blissful orgasm given, ten angels smile. Is that a valid quantifier? I often wonder the magnitude of emotion that constructs those few moments of sensual and spiritual elevation. Is it not a hundred souls worth of joy, love, sedation, contentment. A frozen blip where a word is unfit for use, just a sigh, a release from somewhere deep in the core, and how easily the craving arises.
Today I have revealed my secret. I have smiled and cried. Felt assured in my path, but question my strength and skill. Slowly I carve away at the masterpiece of my soul, chiseling out the person I long to become. If I pray, it is no longer to something above. Rather, it is in hope that my words will be carried to the ear, to the heart of the one who has settled upon my mind, and perhaps tonight, they will know a moments piece, find a smile upon them, or feel the sigh that comes from great pleasure or great tears, that sweet release from the center of being that in one exhalation of air releases the body of negativity and harm. So tonight, I will pray...
I went in to use the restroom, and found this in the stall.
I had sushi with a friend last night. I hadn't seen her in months, and our last meeting was unfortunately brief; so our couple of hours Thursday evening was refreshing. But I thought it odd that in the same day, two people I know mentioned my lack of assertiveness. The first person is a new friend, so he hasn't known me for long, but the other, she is familiar with me. And her words basically translated into "What happened to you?" A good question...
I've debated for some time on delving into this topic in public domain, and I may not still. But those closest to me know parts of my personality have changed in the past year. Before college graduation, I was Priscilla the outspoken feminist, the opinionated writer and conversationalist, never did I hesitate to fall into a public debate with friends or strangers alike. I was the Priscilla who left what I know to travel to India for a month not fathoming the wonderful and tragic experiences and sites. If something crazy was to be done, I was usually the culprit (Exception would be Anna...she drank snake's blood after all...I'm so jealous). If someone was to be open, a bleeding heart, sharing all so that others can be at comfort or no longer feel alone, it was me. That Priscilla was a novel you could thumb through. And being such garnished me equal troubles and rewards.
But then I wove a chapter in my life that changed everything. Several weeks into the last semester of college, I began a relationship with a fellow RELS major. It was problematic because he wasn't mine to have. But it was hard not to fall for someone who intellectually I adored, conversation was never dull, and I thought him a good man at the time. Had he never kissed me, then perhaps the following months would have never taken place. The promises that he'd leave her, and the future we could share.
Having a degree that is seemingly unpractical to the majority of career fields, I had been arranging to teach abroad. And along the way he said he would join me. In my mind, I foolishly thought as if this was my skewed fairytale. To be teaching in a foreign land, study religion(s), and be with someone I love who enjoys all the same things. But there were complications...first...he never really loved me. He cared, but it wasn't love. There was not compassion or empathy or compromise. The compromises he made were based on what he thought was appropriate, but always fell short of what I openly asked for and needed. And a relationship that itself is based on secrecy, lies, and repeated disappointments made me have no trust in him. I thought if he could do this to her, what is to say he couldn't and wasn't doing the same to me? After graduation, I saw him the next evening before he left for Alabama and I for Greece and Turkey for two weeks. But something was awry.
It was only after I returned that I knew. And it changed everything. The day I got my cement shoes and a bleeding soul. And he was useless. From then on the distance grew. I had underestimated myself. And found days where I could not get out of bed, where I cried myself to sleep, cried to work, cried quietly in my cubicle or hid in an unused office, cried on the drive home, and cried some more. One day he looked at me, my face covered in tears, and he said, "Are you done being crazy! Can we have a good day today!?" And I fell numb. If he was any good he would have known I just needed to be held.
Then he changed plans. No longer was he S. Korea bound with me, but rather running back to his parents who were in Europe. And as he left for two weeks on a Greyhound bus, I spent most nights crying, asking friends to stay over so I wouldn't have to be alone. I just needed someone to be next to me as I slept or else I could not rest. The isolation and my mind were driving me insane, deeper down into an abyss that I had never fallen before, and I had no idea how to save myself. Friends didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. Didn't talk about it ever again. If I didn't speak, they wouldn't dare broach it. I remember one of my best and longest known friends had called late one night when all of it began to unravel. And after we got off the phone, he had left the bar and his friends, walked miles back to his apartment, crying; crying about me, crying about his problems, crying about our lives that had steered horribly off course from the paths we had dreamed of back in high school. At least I know one person cried with me.
Before he returned, I had to decide to either travel to S. Korea alone or stay in Charleston and take the full time position my work was offering. Finding myself psychologically and emotionally unstable, I didn't think it a sound choice to travel alone to a foreign country for a year and hope that I could find stable footing again. The day I took the position, I had slept only two hours, went into work with bloodshot eyes, so dry that it hurt to cry, and my boss stared at me never seeing me in such a state the couple of years he'd known me. He wouldn't expect that state from me. And I asked for some time off, I needed to be away. He wouldn't let me go until he knew, and so I spilled it all, crying into my hands, mumbling everything that had happened in that past month. He asked if a week was enough, and I said I didn't know. It is likely the kindest I have ever seen him and ever will. My time off was dedicated to my bed, crying, and ruminations. It was as if I had been consumed by dozens of emotions, and felt them all simultaneously. My mind and soul couldn't cope.
When he returned, it was likely one of the best nights we'd ever had. We talked for hours, ate at a 24hr IHOP in the early AM, and it felt like it did in the beginning. I thought this is the man I fell for, and surely things will look up. But one night is barely a band aid fix. I wasn't getting better, and he did little to understand or help. I found myself yelling in the car one day, "I am not better! I am not getting better!" Then silence.
I think of the numerous times I thought about quitting him. How I wish I had done it before we graduated, then all that happened wouldn't have. When he left that August, I didn't cry as much as I thought I would over him. If I cried, it was because of the soul wound that hadn't healed. I found myself constantly fatigued, stricken with fluctuating emotions, either wanting complete isolation or needing someone around. By the end of September, we didn't talk anymore. By then I only cried several times a week. By late fall, I cried only several times a month. And by winter, I vowed to be reincarnate.
And sometimes I still cry. I cried today in the shower thinking about it again. But I never attempt to squash the feelings. I permit myself to feel it in all it's intensity because it is the only way I get better. But those several months and choices changed the course of my future. It made me much more introspective, separated from others, and somewhat unsociable. It is still difficult for me to get out and meet people even now. I struggle in large crowds, and do better with one or two people. Even then, I find myself wondering if I'm boring or have anything of value to talk about. These particular insecurities I have never known before. I find it odd that I have lost some my assertiveness, and to a certain extent my tongue.
For months, I allowed myself to stay in a place emotionally and mentally that was devastating. Everything had gone wrong. And I had no one but my own mind to help me get through. I will add that this is no fault to my friends because they all will vouch that historically, I am stubbornly independent and in all honesty, had never needed help before this, or help of this magnitude. Usually, if someone is doing the helping, it's me. And I didn't exactly reach out, I didn't want to be a burden to anyone. My thoughts were very incoherent, almost stream of consciousness, these waves of emotion, it was barely enough for me to contain and digest let alone pouring that emotional deluge onto others.
So, I suppose I have lost a bit of the Priscilla I was. But in saying that, I think I have changed in other ways as well. I feel much more empathetical, tolerant of others' situations and views. I think I finally let myself feel more than I ever had before. I had learned early on after my mother's death that being emotional wasn't a state of mind I wanted to be, and for a long time, I thought emotion and conveying emotion was a weakness. Not only do I feel more, but I appreciate so much more. And I find myself wanting to live twice as hard as before, to be twice as dedicated to my dreams and seeing them come to fruition. I feel the life I lead is no longer just about me, but it's for another as well.
I've accepted that I won't be the same. But I'm also on the path to finding a balance of who I was and what I am becoming, and all I can do is embrace it and nurture it more than I have ever done before.
My ring stopped spinning. It's broken.
I wonder. Perhaps I should stop spinning my prayers and meditations away and find a way to answer them myself.
It was rare that I ever used it for such. Mostly I spun it out of nervousness. Feeling the metal, focusing on turning it quickly, it calms me. I don't think anyone ever noticed though.
