Disappearing, reappearing!

If you’re one of the folks who visit this website and/or follow my blog (and Goddess bless you if you do!), this is a programming note: This website may disappear for a bit while it’s being moved to a new hosting site. When it returns, it will look and behave a lot differently than this one! If you’re trying to visit this website and it seems to have vanished, not to worry, it will reappear bigger, better, and brighter than this one, at the same URL: debradeangelo.com.

While I did my best to cobble this one together, I’ve accepted the limitations of my website abilities (I know just enough to really botch things up), and am getting assistance from someone who actually has expertise, and who doesn’t cringe reading words like “SEO” and “Yost” and “RSS.” In other words, someone who can level up from “just make the damn thing go.”

Goodbye, pretty beach pebbles and ocean glass! I don’t know if you’ll reappear on the new website or not! Stay lovely!

Goodbye, kooky orange titles and headlines! I really loved you but my web designer says “no.”

Goodbye, restaurant menu template! I never really did learn how to use you properly, but you’ve been a reasonably cooperative pal, and it was good while it lasted.

Hello, website 2.0!

I only have a vague idea of how it might look (we’re working on that now) but it will feature my books, both finished and to be released, and my wonder horse, Pendragon, will surely have a guest spot somewhere. Hopefully, my website will reflect my “brand,” and hopefully I’ll understand what that is by the time the website goes up. Horsey Girl? Earth mama? Meow-ma? Healer? Garden Variety Pagan? Yes! Mix all that together and what do you get? Me!

No, I don’t really understand what that looks like, but let’s pretend I do.

The posts I’ve made so far on this blog will transfer to the new website, and I’ll have a “blog” tab where you can find them. If you are following this website and getting notices by email, you’ll likely have to follow all over again on the new one (same URL), until my ace web designer figures out how to transfer them. Until then, this may be my last post to pop up in your email… but you’ll be able to find me when my new home is all shiny and sparkly and ready for visitors.

Meanwhile, while my website undergoes a metamorphosis, here’s is a photo of my fatt catt, Maxx, to make you smile until we meet again! (You can see that he’s thrilled!)

Tell me your ghost stories

It’s that time of year when witches, black cats, ghosts, and goblins are omnipresent. For some of us, connecting with magical energies beyond the veil are just a normal part of everyday life. For others, it’s time to get their Halloween groove on, and attend costume parties or take the kiddos trick-or-treating or tell spooky ghost stories. Maybe even visit a haunted house! Boo!

For Pagans, this time of year heralds the sabbat called “Samhain” (pronounced sow-en), and it’s the time of year that the veils between the physical and metaphysical worlds are at their thinnest. At this time of year, we remember our ancestors — known and unknown — and feel the natural energies of the ever-turning Wheel of the Year slowing down. Samhain is traditionally the end of the year for Pagans, and we relax into the waning daylight and feel the energies of the environment slowing down as we approach the winter solstice. (Unless you’re in the Southern Hemisphere! There, it’s the exact opposite!) Traditionally, Samhain would inaugurate a time of rest and reflection — which is completely in contradiction to the mad rush of “the Holidays.” Balancing both can be a challenge!

Whether Pagan or not, ghosts are very popular this time of year. I saw a post this morning lifted from TheScareFactor.com, which allegedly showed the number of haunted houses by state. After poking around the website a bit, a lot of those haunted houses are actually Halloween-type houses where you pay admission to be scared out of your skin, and not actual dwellings of lonely or disgruntled spirits. Google offered a more traditional, less commercialized list of haunted places — considerably fewer in number than The Scare Factor.

Whether Halloween fun or metaphysically saturated, it got me thinking… I’ve had experiences in places where an energy was quite detectable… an unseen but felt presence… received transmissions of messages via feelings or images… and sometimes even an urge to get the hell out of there now.

How about you? Have you ever inexplicably had a gut reaction to a place or an experience that confirmed that there are definitely energies existing on another plane of awareness or consciousness… and that they were trying to contact you? Spirits? Ghosts? Or???

I’ve had two significant experiences with the Otherworld, both beginning in childhood, and both recurring. The first was an apparition that appeared at my bedside when I was about 3 or 4. She was a woman, 30s-ish, slender. She had brown hair cut just above the shoulders. She always wore a plain black or dark gray slim skirt, and a plain white blouse. She never moved. She had no facial expression whatsoever, and would just stare at me, blankly. Her eyes were black — as in no white, or colored iris — and when she blinked, it made the sound of two pieces of paper rubbing together.

It was the scratchy sound of her blink that unsettled me the most. When she would appear, I’d hide under the covers and just wait it out. When it was quiet again, I’d peer out and she’d be gone. She never made any sort of threat or attempt to frighten me, nor did she welcome me either. Her energy was… “Why are you here?”

The woman appeared several times at my bedside in this house, which was my first home. I don’t know the history of that house, but my theory is that she lived there at some point in time, and I was sleeping in this room where she thought I didn’t belong. Did it belong to her? One of her children? I don’t know. She never offered any clue or information, other than to stare, and blink. Once we moved out of that house, I never saw her again. However, recalling her image still makes me a little uncomfortable — was she friend or foe? Or neither?

When we moved to our second house, when I was about 8, I had my second experience with an Otherworldly energy. It only made itself known through a specific tapping sound, that I recognized immediately as a communication. Like the Lady By My Bed, it never wavered in its communication… a tapping that merely said, “I’m here.” However, unlike The Lady, this energy felt distinctly more benign. It only wanted to be near me, and for me to be aware of that.

The tapping sound was very soft. First a single soft tap, a slight pause, and then an even softer tap: Tap… tap — Tap… tap — Tap… tap. This would go on for several minutes and then just stop. What makes this metaphysical energy even more interesting is that unlike The Lady, it followed me through several residences. It contacted me at that house many times, and then followed me to my first apartment when I moved away to go to college.

In those days, I didn’t really have a good grasp of the Pagan or spiritual world. One morning, as the Tapper was letting me know it was there, I got annoyed. A wild and raucous night of college partying the night before, with its residual splitting headache that morning, didn’t help. I decided I’d had enough of this whatever-it-was, jumped up out of bed, and slammed my hands against the wall where the tapping was coming from.

“Stop it! Go away!” I shouted, and stomped back to bed.

And… it did.

I moved to several residences after my college days, and the Tapper didn’t make a single sound at any of them. However, it apparently was silently sticking with me, because not long after I moved into my current home (and also opened myself up to the Pagan and metaphysical world) it returned.

I was telling my “ghost story” to my daughter one day, when she was in her early teens, mimicking the tapping sound with my knuckles on the table, and suddenly she went completely pale, her eyes wide. She told me she’d heard that exact knocking coming from her closet. (She now insists that she dreamed it, but I know what she said at the time!) She was very unsettled that a spirit had been visiting her, but I soothed her concerns, noting that the Tapper never, ever transmitted any harmful or frightening message. It had always seemed harmless.

In addition to harmless, this spirit was a bit shy, or maybe just very obedient. It had never made itself known to me personally since the day I commanded it to stop contacting me, until…

Years after my daughter moved out to go to college herself, I was standing at my ancestor altar on Samhain, admiring the soft orange glow of candlelight amid photos and cherished personal items of friends, relatives, and ancestors who’d passed through the veil, and paused to close my eyes and welcome any messages or feelings any of them would like to send. And then I heard it, coming right from the side of the altar: Tap… tap — Tap… tap — Tap… tap.

A smile spread across my face, and I said softly, “Welcome back, old friend.” I stood there for a long while, just listening, and being open to anything the entity might want to say. The message hadn’t changed: “I’m here.” And also, “And always have been.” Instead of being annoyed, this time, I welcomed it, and told it that as long as its intentions were peaceful, it was welcome to visit. After a few moments, the tapping stopped. The following Samhain, it returned, in the same place and manner as before. Oddly enough, last year, when my husband and I were honoring our ancestors together at our altar, the spirit did not contact me. I found that peculiarly interesting, particularly since it had contacted me at the altar in the past when my husband was present in the house. But when he was actively participating at the altar in a ritual to remember our beloved dead, the spirit remained silent.

So, that’s my own real-life “ghost story.” How about you? Have you been contacted from beyond the Veil, or have you had metaphysical, spiritual experiences in particular places? I’d love to hear about them. It’s that time of year when we open ourselves up to spirits unseen.

A blessed Samhain and happy Halloween to one and all.

What is my brand?

So, part of this author adventure is that my publisher assigns a publicist to help me get the word out about my new book (Pagan Curious — A Beginner’s Guide to Nature, Magic & Spirituality), which is really super because while I love to write, I hate hate hate to promote myself. I’m a fabulous cheerleader for most anyone else, and love to do whatever I can to help someone else succeed, but for myself? Well… gulp. That’s just uncomfortable.

I met my super cool new publicist, Markus, a couple weeks ago (and by “met,” I mean we did it pandemic style on Zoom), and in addition to pumping up my confidence and enthusiasm to birth this book out into the world, he gave me some homework, which included revamping this website. He kindly described what I’ve got going on here as “a little dated.” I couldn’t agree more. I’ve wanted to change it for a long time. Besides, the template for this website wasn’t designed for blogging — it was designed for restaurant use, and is set up for menus, not blogs, and therefore it’s quite difficult to make it perform like a blog site.

You might ask, “Why did you pick a template that wasn’t designed for blogging,” and I might answer, “Because I liked the pretty orange font on the headlines.” And therein you see why my technology adventures frequently blow up in my face.

I’ve been wanting to update this website for years, but the issue is that transferring all this content to a different template requires website skills that are above my pay grade. I know just enough about WordPress to ignite a big steaming pile of “Oh fuck, what have I done!” and no idea how to clean up the mess I’ve made. Been there, done that, had to hand the shovel to an expert.

Having blown up websites a few times and requiring expert assistance, I decided not to venture into this update myself. I want it to be a real website, and not just something I tinkered with and mashed together on my own. So, my buddy Sarah, Goddess of the Websites, is looking into refurbishing my little home on the internet. Stay tuned, it will hopefully look a lot different in a few weeks. Meanwhile, I need to work a few things out before we go “live.” At the top of that list is how to present myself. My “brand” as it were.

“Brand.”

Oh, I have bristled at both the word and concept for a long time. It just seems so unnatural and manufactured. I would prefer my brand to evolve naturally, as it did over my 26 years as an opinion columnist. Which it did. And that’s the problem. My columnist “brand” was to be balls out, fists up, and ready to throw a verbal hook punch at any moment. Kitty has claws, and she knows how to use them. But that’s “columnist me,” and since I launched onto the author’s path, I’ve distanced myself from that. I just got tired of the whole vibe. That brand doesn’t really work for me anymore. My books aren’t about politics, they fall more under the “helping, healing, happiness” umbrella, in the spirituality section — not the biting political commentary section.

It took a long while to detox from those many years of verbal cage fighting, and aside from very rare moments where I can’t resist the urge to comment on whatever political or social turbulence is boiling at the moment, I’ve kept it clean. Internally, I’ve made the transition from “fierce, fearless hellcat” to “peaceful, purring kittycat” quite nicely. I just don’t crave the buzz of verbal battle anymore. I used to eat it for breakfast. Now, I’d just hork it up like a hairball.

My challenge, and the source of my contemplation, is defining and shaping a brand that portrays who I am now, and how to present that on the updated website. That may confuse some folks who’ve been with me for a long time, but here’s the thing: I’m a Gemini, and “Peaceful, Purring Me” has always been there, just not so much in public. I mean, I’ve been a massage therapist almost as long as I was a newspaper editor and columnist, so that side has always been there. Just not in print. I used to have a sign on my wall at work: “51 percent sweetheart, 49 percent bitch — don’t push your luck.” Well, those percentages are probably more like a 70-30 sweetheart to bitch ratio now. I don’t need to have my claws out anymore, but every cat owner will confirm that even the most peaceful, loving kitty will shred you in a heartbeat if provoked.

So. Updating this website and my brand are linked together. Old brand: Hellcat. New brand… ??? Whatever that reveals itself to be, my goal is internal and external/public congruence (which, by the way, is a topic I cover in depth in “Pagan Curious”!) It feels like I have a lot of ingredients to mush together, hopefully into one cohesive ball: Horsey Girl. Longtime Pagan. Massage practitioner. Tarot enthusiast. Lover of nature and magickal energies and practices. I’ll be rolling that ball around in my hands and shaping it for the next few weeks, which is much more difficult than it sounds, mainly because of my resistance to it. I’d rather you just get to know me all over again, sort of like Gwen Stefani when she reintroduced herself this year and spiced up her career. Yeah, just like Gwen! Except I’m not nearly that hot, except in my own mind. Although I can karoake the shit outta “Just A Girl.”

So…. what will my new “brand” be? I’m not really sure, but going forward, I’ve decided I want to build people up, not shred them to pieces. I want to create things that inspire, enlighten, educate, and even simply entertain. And I’ll keep my claws retracted. Unless you try to shove me off the couch, and then it’s on.

New directions, and a new book too

So, it’s not like I haven’t been writing. I just haven’t been writing here.

From the looks of this blog, you might think I’ve been in outer space and just transmitted a post occasionally from across the universe. It’s not entirely incorrect — but I’ve journeyed to inner space, not outer space. I’ve been more focused on writing books than blogs, and to be honest, I think I’ve sort of lost my commentary mojo. It’s not that I don’t like writing anymore, it’s just that my interest in harping about politics has slowly rolled to a stop.

After nearly 30 years of writing columns, many of which were political in nature, I started to ponder what good any of the kvetching and bitching did. Did I change the world? Nope. It’s still spinning along without my help. Did I alter the course of anything? No. (Evidence: Hillary didn’t win.) Did I change minds? No. People who agree with you cheer, and people who don’t boo from the stands. I started wondering if it’s really worth the time and effort if all I’m really doing is pouring salty talk in open wounds.

When I survey the meager posts I’ve produced over the last couple years, well… aren’t I just a drag! What a Debbie Downer! To be fair, the last few years were also a drag, and there weren’t many lovely, uplifting things to write about. Well, commentary-wise, that is. Off screen, there are all sorts of things to write about! Horses, for example. I wrote a whole book about them, and their spiritual, evolutionary connection to humankind. “The Elements of Horse Spirit — The Magical Bond Between Humans and Horses” was published in June 2020 — right at the height of the covid pandemic, social justice protests, and the perpetual Trumpster dumpster fire. So, it was difficult to raise my little hand and say, “Hey… I have a super cool book out, and I’d love if you gave it a look!” So much for a splashy debut. My little ripple of accomplishment was lost in a raging sea of fear, anger, and relentless stress.

Oh yeah. Speaking of raging, there was a fire too, last year. (“A fire.” Understatement of the century.) The LNU Complex fire last August transformed this area into the Apocalypse. The whole world was burning down. So, it was nearly impossible for my little book to make an audible peep in the cacophony of the 2020 shitshow. But, this is 2021, and we’re moving on. Progress — both political and medical — is grinding forward. President Biden is the soothing salve our country’s third degree burns needed, and we’re slowing the spread of covid. Well, some of us are — the ones who are smart enough to get vaccinated. The rest? Well… I suppose natural selection will play out in real time. Get goddamned vaccinated, people!

OK. That’s as close as I’ll tiptoe toward social/political commentary, because I’m striving to change the trajectory of my writing. There’s a glut of writers out there already spewing a sea of opinion on what’s happening in our country and world, and frankly, do we really need one more? I don’t think so. Not that I won’t quip and quote here and there, but I have to be very careful, because abstaining from writing political/social commentary is like abstaining from alcohol. One little sip, and I’ll be passed out in an alley with an empty vodka bottle and a few stray cats.

What will I write about instead? Uplifting topics. Thoughtful topics. Helpful topics. In “Horse Spirit,” for example, yes, it’s about horses, but it’s more about how horses (even on a strictly abstract, spiritual, magical level) can change your life. They can inspire and strengthen you to achieve any goal. They are powerful spiritual allies. However, I didn’t rest my writing laurels on their strong backs. After finishing that book, I launched into a second: “Pagan Curious — A Beginner’s Guide to Nature, Magic & Spirituality.” I’m expecting it to be published in January, but it’s already got it’s own homepage on the Llewellyn Worldwide website, and you can preorder it right now! And, here’s a bonus! Every time someone buys one of my books, an angel has an orgasm! Come on… make an angel’s day… they have no genitalia, so they really appreciate it!

For those of you who’ve been with me for a really long time, like “newsprint” time, you may be even more surprised that I’m writing about Paganism than you are that I wrote about horses. I didn’t touch upon those topics much in print, but bear in mind that what I wrote about in print was like showing you the palm of my hand. That’s all I showed publicly. Little by little, I’m bringing the rest of me into the sunlight.

As for horses, they have enamored me since I took my first breath. I’m sure my first word wasn’t “mommy” or “daddy,” but “pony.” I grew up with horses, used to ride show jumpers, and my family was heavily involved in horse racing (a potential future book will be, “How to Go Bankrupt in One Year or Less: Get a Racehorse.”) I had a very long drought of horses — about 35 years — and returned to them in my 50s. It’s a pretty amazing story, and it changed my life. (It’s all in the book!)

As for Paganism, you probably caught glimpses of that here and there, and chalked it up to “Tree-Lovin’, Whale-Huggin’ Old Hippie.” True enough on the surface, but the story goes much deeper. Like my love of horses, I was always Pagan. I just didn’t have a vocabulary for it, or even know what it was on a conscious level, until my 40s. My thirsty search for a spiritual connection to nature and the Universe was quenched when I randomly toddled into a Pagan harvest festival. In screenwriting, they call this a “plot point” — where the entire story spins and takes off in another direction. That festival was the plot point of my life. Nothing was ever the same after that. Finally, I knew what I was, what I believed in, how I wanted to live. It was like that moment when Dorothy steps out of her black and white Kansas house in Oz, and discovers a world in full color.

So, how about you? Have you always wondered what those crystals are for, or what those strange symbols mean, or why that drum circle or the full moon calls to you? Why you can feel the sea or the forest? Why a certain animal keeps inexplicably appearing to you, or why particular herbs or oils make you feel better? Well, my friend, you just may be “Pagan Curious” too. Like my horse story, it’s all in the book!

But, back to this blog. I’m setting it on a new path, and keeping social and political commentary to a bare minimum. Humor? Yes! Inspiration? Yes! Just a random here’s-something-to-smile-about? Yes! More of that, less of the other! Because although I’ve discovered I can’t change the world… I might be able to lift it up a bit. The path ahead can be bright, if we choose it to be. Let’s walk it together.

*****

My second book, “Pagan Curious — A Beginner’s Guide to Nature, Magic & Spirituality,” is available for preorder on the Llewellyn Worldwide website: https://www.llewellyn.com/product.php?ean=9780738766539

Oh, the irony of getting what you wanted

What I’ll remember most about this coronavirus ordeal (I mean, besides the thrum of imminent disease and death) is not the bother of looking like an old-timey bandit every time I ventured out of the house or how my husband and I managed to survive three months (thus far) stuck with each other 24-7 without going homicidal. No, what I’ll remember about this chapter is: irony.

Alanis Morisette, I must add to your iconic, ironic list of black flies in your chardonnay:  achieving your lifelong dream and then being unable to access it. My dream? Living in pajama pants and coffee-stained T-shirts, writing, writing, writing until cocktail hour, and then whittling away the remainder of the day on the patio under the shady albizia, with a fine glass of Napa Cab (dark, can’t see the flies), daydreaming about where the next day’s writing adventures will take me.

Turns out, I botched my “all the time in the world to write” fantasy because I was focusing on opportunity and neglected to include ability. And there it is. The irony.

So, although our Shelter in Place lifestyle provides an abundance of time to do the things I’ve always wanted to around the house, like organizing my book shelves or planting rose bushes or digging through the layers of junk sediment I’ve squirreled away in the garage (it’s not hoarding if it’s in the garage) and clearing out some space for new stuff I don’t need, I just can’t quite get anything accomplished. Except Candy Crush. I can accomplish a lot of that.  All the time in the world to do all the things I never had time for, and I’m not doing any of them.

Isn’t it ironic?

Don’tcha think?

But wait, you say, if you aren’t doing all those projects and tasks, that means you have even more time to devote to writing, yes?

Turns out, nope.

While I’m physically able to sit at the keyboard and type… my words are gone. For weeks, the well was just dry. I recently wrote a couple columns (I still can’t bring myself to call them blogs… it feels so… dirty), and managed to disgorge one little feature story for Witches & Pagans magazine. After 26 years in journalism, I have an abundance of experience producing publishable writing, no matter what’s going on in my life, be it divorces, or teenagers, or funerals, or PMS. Because, in journalism, not writing isn’t an option.

The Deadline Dominatrix.

She Who Must Be Obeyed.

So, yes, I wrote some stuff. But columns and feature stories are one thing. Writing books is an entirely different experience. Columns and stories are crafted. Writing for books emerges. Ideas and words and sentences burble up from a magical well in my brain and flow through my fingers. But suddenly it’s as if a brick wall has gone up around the well, and the gate to that garden has been slammed shut and padlocked. And I don’t have the key.

Well, hello, writer’s block. I thought we’d already met, but apparently I was mistaken. You’re much uglier than you looked in the photos.

And, there’s the second irony. All this time to write, and I just… can’t. I am creatively paralyzed. A verbaplegic.

Alanis, this is so, so, so much worse than ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.

I see other writers on social media turning this pandemic plight into stunning productivity, churning out finished manuscripts like word machines, and I look at them like I would an Olympic gymnast flying and tumbling through the air on the parallel bars. I watch wide-eyed and think, “Fuck! I can’t do that!!” And at that precise moment, my old pal Anxiety steps in to confirm my fears.

Just give up. Stay in place. If you never try, you’ll never have to fail. Stay here with me and let the entropy and decay do its work.

Anxiety has been my lifelong nemesis. It freezes you in place like the proverbial deer in the headlights, but the oncoming vehicle never actually gets there. You just stand there, frozen, immobile, while your mind runs an endless tape “what if, what if, what if” that all lead to doom and disaster.

But… when I was writing my last book, I felt like I’d left anxiety in the rearview mirror! I was unstoppable. The Queen Fucking Bee of my own life. Nothing ahead but bright light and success. I was writing like a beast. What the hell happened!

Coronavirus, that’s what.

And institutionalized agoraphobia as a way of life: Leave the house and DIE.

These are fat times for my buddy Anxiety. There’s a brand new universe of fear to exploit, from touching another human to forgetting to wash your hands to venturing out to buy a loaf of bread. The entire world has become treacherous. Lethal even. It’s too overwhelming to think about. How ’bout we shove it all aside and pretend it’s not there.

It’s what Candy Crush was invented for.

I’m on, like, level 7,000.

But… how, and why, did all this coronavirus anxiety express itself in writer’s block? I have no fucking idea. So I presented the issue to the source of all knowledge: Facebook. I asked other writers if their fingers are flying over their keyboards or, like me, are they dead in the creative water. Turns out… I’m not alone. Others are stuck too. And some offered some really valuable insight, in particular, that anxiety neutralizes creativity. And also, that maybe I should give myself a break for having feelings about an actual crisis, rather than perpetually flogging myself for being a failure.

From this, I got clarity. First off, maybe I should turn some of that kindness and compassion I’m always yammering on about toward myself. What a concept. Second, stop fleeing from my worries and take some time to just look at them there, swirling round and round like leaves stuck in a swimming pool drain. See what’s actually there. See them for what they are, not what I imagine them to be.

As opposed to the anxiety that I self-generate about stupid, obscure shit, like the drive shaft on the steering wheel breaking off while I’m driving and hitting the asphalt and impaling me, the corona virus anxieties are actually possible:  “Will I ever see my children again?” “Will people I love die?” or “Will my life end alone, on a respirator, with no one there?”  I don’t even have to use my imagination to envision gruesome, horrifying scenarios anymore. They’re happening all over the world, to tens of thousands of people.

“Will I be one of them???”

It’s too overwhelming to think about, and it all came upon us so suddenly, we didn’t even have time to process it beyond “Be afraid! Be very, very afraid!” Me, I couldn’t deal. So I Scarlet O’Hara’ed it: I’ll think about that tomorrow. Shoved it all into the back of my brain and tried to convince myself that this is just a long, weird holiday.

But my brain is not so easily fooled by the likes of me.

“Ha! You think you’re not thinking about those things, but I’m gonna run those little motherfuckers on a subconscious endless loop in the back of your mind like too many programs running in the background on your computer, and use up all your RAM, and shut you down.” And, there you have it: writer’s block. Anxiety, albeit subconscious, hijacked my brain.

“Outta the way, bitch, I’m driving now!”

However, funny thing about subconscious stuff. Shining a light on it and examining what’s festering and fermenting there is what helps you to conquer it, and anxiety too. Awareness is the mental Raid you can spray on all those cockroaches.

So, what’s there, really.

Yes, I could catch the coronavirus. I could die. However, I could also die in a car crash, and I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about that when I get in the car.  Ditto for riding my horse. I know that every time I ride, I could be hurt or killed. But the joy of riding my horse overrides the threat. So, I mentally slided the coronavirus fear into the driving and riding category, and that made it conquerable. I can acknowledge the fear and continue to live my life anyway, whether it’s cars or horses or viruses.

That little epiphany was the key to that locked gate. Click! I can step inside again. I can hear the babbling well. Words and sentences are bubbling up again. I just need to capture them on the keyboard.

I’m back!

I’m not giving my creativity to anxiety anymore. I’ll spend my mental capital on things I actually can control, and coronavirus ain’t one of them. Yes, it’s there, and yes, I must do everything I can to stay safe, and honor the safety of others. But I’m not going to let it consume all my creative bandwidth.

But I’ll probably still worry about the drive shaft from time to time. Because, virus or no virus, I’m still me.

Cornered…

The breadbasket has been in one corner on our kitchen counter forever. You have to reach over a bunch of olive oil and vinegar bottles to get some bread. Sometimes the bottles almost get knocked over if you don’t have quick reflexes. 

Two days ago… the husband of this household did not have quick reflexes. 

*clink*

*crash*

A ceramic cup lost its life, taken out by a tipped bottle of avocado oil. 

He: &$@%#£¥murfuckin&$}*?|>!!! 👹
WHY DO THESE GODDAM BOTTLES HAVE TO BE IN FRONT OF THE BREAD BASKET👹
WHAT DO WE EVEN NEED AVOCADO OIL FOR? 
?&@€€}€{~>$@!!!! 👹

Wellsir, I thought about that for two days. 

Why IS the breadbasket there?
Why ARE the bottles there? 

And we need avocado oil because: DUH. 
🥑

As for the other two questions, the only answer I could produce is “Because they have always been there.” Not for any sort of planning but because I put them there once about 20 years ago and never re-evaluated that. And there they stayed.

Programming note: You can easily learn to reach over the bottles without calamity if you have a vagina. 

The one who reached over them most recently did not. 

And now… an innocent cup is dead. 

DEAD. 

*sadness*

😔

So thia morning, I examined our kitchen countertop clusterfuck. 🤔

And ever so slowly… as if whispered to me from the divine realm by some sleepy-eyed chubby-cheeked cherub… it dawned on me…

What if. 
What IF. 
WHAT IF!!!

What if… you moved the bread basket… to the OTHER corner!!!

Mind. 
BLOWN. 
🤯

And so… ever so thoughtfully, as if rearranging the wires on an explosive device… I moved the breadbasket to – get this – the OTHER corner. 

Only the bottles occupy the other corner now. 

Alone. 

It’s as if I’ve just swallowed the Red Pill. 

🐇

Rebooted reboot

I know, I know, I know…

I popped back in from outer space on January 1, all ready to reboot this blog and get back to opining about all sorts of things about which no one asked my opinion, and then… *crickets*

So, a funny thing happened on the way to that reboot. Not “haha” funny, but unusual and highly distracting. I realize that “highly distracting” means almost nothing coming from someone who darts off after the first “Squirrel!” but this time, I think these things will qualify even for those with the most steadfast spans of attention.

I was waiting to really get going on blogging again until my book cover was done and I could swing down that path. Because yes, people, Squirrel or no, I did manage to complete my first book last year and all in all, I am pretty damn pleased with it and myself.

To kick off my celebration of finally accomplishing something, I attended the annual Pagan convention, Pantheacon, in mid-February and went to Llewellyn Worldwide’s author gathering, and saw my book cover for the first time! What a surprise, and what a peak experience that was! I was over the moon. So yes, “The Elements of Horse Spirit — The Magical Bond Between Humans and Horses” is happening, my friends! I have photographic evidence, and also heard that it went to press two weeks ago. It’s available for pre-order on Amazon right now! How cool is THAT!

I returned from Pantheacon all set to shine a spotlight on the next leg of my life’s journey and got slammed with an unexpected surprise. After many years of relentless arm pain and restriction, it turns out I had not only a bone spur under the end of my collarbone, digging right into the nerve that runs to the deltoid muscle, but also two rotator cuff tears — one partial, and one a full thickness tear, the latter of which being the truly troublesome part.

After consulting with a surgeon, a specialist, and my own dear doc, the opinion was unanimous: The rotator cuff must be repaired before the severed ends scar over because at that point, it will no longer be repairable. At that point, I’d be looking at a shoulder replacement. And ANY replacement of ANY body part weirds me the hell out, so that was incentive enough to make my decision easy.

In February, the surgeon gave me a window of six months to repair the damage. Initially, I wanted to do what all good journalists do, and push that surgery out to the last possible moment… let all that good old deadline energy propel me through. However, both the specialist and my doc said, “Do it NOW.” I have to wonder if both of them knew that coronavirus was heading our way, and if I stalled, there’d be a good chance my surgery would be denied as “non essential” during the midst of this pandemic. Thankfully, whether foresight or conservative medical opinion, I did as they said, and had my shoulder repaired on March 3.

I went in for surgery, and the world was relatively normal, albeit caution about hand-washing and being aware of activities that might spread the virus was floating around. I came out of surgery, and the entire world turned upside down. Within one week, the shelter-in-place orders went into effect in California and we were all thrust into a new, unfamiliar reality. And possibly not a temporary one. We will likely be living this way until a vaccine is found, and that could take as long as 18 months, so, well… maybe invest in a bidet because that’s a LOT of toilet paper that we don’t have, my friends.

What does this all have to do with your alleged writing reboot, Debra? Jeez, get ON with it.

Well, it’s this: I imagined that even though I had to wear a bulky arm sling 24-7 for the entire first month, I’d still be able to write. I imagined wrong. Sitting at the computer with that thing on required uncomfortable contortions that made focusing on writing pretty much impossible, and my hand and arm were as weak as a newborn kitten. Beyond the physical discomfort, I discovered that following general anesthesia, plus extreme sleep deprivation due to the sling and only being able to sleep (or attempt it, rather) in a recliner, I’d lost my words as if someone locked the room in my brain where they all are. Locked out! I struggled to find the exact word I was trying to say, and to even finish a sentence. For someone who lives in a world of words, this was most unsettling. I said a lot of things like, “I need to go get that thing to do that… thing… ” and sometimes I’d hear a sentence come out of my mouth and my ears would detect that I didn’t use the words I’d intended to. That was upsetting all by itself.

And then the coronavirus tsunami washed over us all.

It didn’t take long before my good old pal Anxiety roared back into my life, further paralyzing my ability to write anything longer than a snarky Facebook post. What irony, right? Suddenly I’m gifted with endless time to write, and between physical discomfort and psychological anguish over our impending collective doom… I’m unable to write a damn thing. And so… I gave up on writing for the rest of March, and on into early April, until I could get the sling off. Just completely furloughed my brain and decided that epic hours spent playing Candy Crush and watching reruns of The Office was forgivable under the circumstances. “Just heal,” I told myself. “That’s all you need to do.” And so, the days wore on, just an endless cycle of changing from P.M. pajamas to A.M. pajamas and back again.

Until this morning. Today is the first time in nearly six weeks that I’ve been able to sit at a keyboard and use both hands without pain, AND have enough psychological bandwidth to write something reasonably coherent. Milestone, people! Yes, the whole coronavirus thing is running like a ticker tape through the back of my brain, but as I said… this is now our reality. I must teach myself to write again in spite of it, because this is where we’re stuck, and this is where we’ll stay. Thank Goddess it’s totally comfy to write in PJs, which ironically was always my ultimate dream. Somehow, I didn’t quite imagine it this way, but this is what it is.

And here we are, all the way to the end of a column! Hopefully my writing Muse has been kickstarted! This may not be my best work, but hey — it’s SOME work, and that’s more than I’ve done since January. It may contain typos because my post-surgery anxiety-saturated brain is still struggling a bit, so apologies in advance. But hopefully, my reboot is officially rebooted! Now if we just could go awhile without anything else funny happening. (Note to the Universe: No more surprises, please. Enough’s enough. You’ve made your point: Control is all an illusion. We get it. Don’t be a dick and hammer it home. Nobody likes a dick.)

Me, seeing the cover of my book for the first time at Llewellyn Worldwide’s authors party at Pantheacon in February 2020!

 

 

Knocking down the cobwebs

Pffft… pffft… pfffffffft….

Dang, there are cobwebs all over this place, aren’t there! Dust everywhere you look! I’m almost ashamed to admit that I haven’t made a single post since last May.

Almost.

Because it wasn’t simple garden variety laziness or lack of organization or—squirrel!!! (this time)… I had a super good reason: I spent most of last spring and summer working on my first book, “Elements of Horse Spirit – How Horses and Humans Heal Each Other,” to be published by Llewellyn Worldwide in June 2020! Yes! I finally achieved the one milestone I always wanted: to write at home, with neither boss nor employees, and preferably in pajama pants all day long! Cocktails by 4 p.m.! The dream is alive!

The reality of that lifelong dream, however, is that I wrote this book on a fast-track, suggesting an absolutely preposterous timeline (two months for the first draft), and then set out to meet it. And I did. But it wasn’t done there… revisions and editing followed, and the book wasn’t done done until Labor Day, and that’s not quite true either, because the manuscript has moved on to another editor, and within the next couple months, the draft copy will be proofread and copy-edited yet once again, until it goes to press in March.

It was an incredible amount of work, and I’m beyond thrilled that this is finally happening (I turned 60 last year, so I’ve taken “late bloomer” to the next level), but the upswing of all that work is that I squeezed all the words out of my brain. Nothing left but a chalky, haggard husk, except a few TV theme songs rolling around in the dusty corners. Nothing left but an endless loop of “... love is all around no need to waste it…” But, yeah, temporary cognitive depletion notwithstanding, it looks like I am, in fact, going to make it after all! Somebody get me a beret to toss in the middle of town square!

Why am I feeling a splooge of confidence about that? Well, Llewellyn has given me the green light to start on my second book, which will be especially for the Pagan-curious, and those interested in a little guidebook about discovering their feral side and exploring the Pagan world; a Pagan preschool primer of sorts.

Yes, Pagan. In fact, both books are of the Pagan slant, which may or may not come as a shock to some. Those who recognize my Pagan core, recognize my Pagan core. The rest just assume I’m some old tree-hugging, whale-loving hippie who owns too much silver jewelry with weird looking symbols, and has a bad tarot addiction. After many, many years of (badly) hiding my true Pagan self, and with print journalism far in my rearview mirror, I can finally be completely congruent. Whew. It feels great to exhale.

Why did I pretty much stay in the broom closet all that time? Simple: Paganism didn’t pay the bills.

And yes, it’s true: I am just done with journalism. For multiple reasons. That ship hasn’t just sailed, it’s hit a coral reef, ripped its belly open, and sunk to the bottom of the sea, where happy little seahorses and clownfish and crabs are repurposing it into a sweet little underwater condo.

Honestly, it was never my goal to be a journalist or an editor anyway, and I was never particularly interested in newspapers either. It’s just what happened while I was busy making other plans.

Oh, life… you are such a scamp!

All that said, I did have a passion for writing opinion, and that was the hardest piece to release, but here we are, a year and a half later, and I can count all the columns (I suppose I should more appropriately say “blog posts” now) that I’ve written on one hand in that span of time, and I just don’t really care. I sort of lost interest in the whole opinion gig. I went internal, shared my opinion on social media here and there, but even that has become a bit “meh” to me. I’ve realized, in retrospect, that I never succeeded in changing people’s minds, let alone the world, but holy crap, did I try. I became very accustomed to a 360-degree “fists up” mentality all the time, and became quite the verbal scrapper over the years. Yes, kitty had claws, and she wasn’t afraid to use them. But the more time that elapsed between my official last column and the present moment, the less interest I had in continuing the constant shit-disturbing. War, even in words… huh – what is it good for? Absolutely nuthin’.

Except endless arguments and flaming social media threads that ultimately accomplish even less.

Evidence: Hillary did not win in 2016. And Kellyanne is still talking.

And so, I sat on the banks and let the endless river of potential column topics just float on past (and wow, did the current occupant of the White House float plenty of jetsam downstream). Some looked mighty tempting, but all in all… I just let it drift on by and got reacquainted with myself instead. I didn’t even produce a pithy column on turning 60, as I had when I turned 40 and 50 because… does it really matter? It’s a number. It’s also a lot of judgment. Are we done with “OK, Boomer” yet? That’s about as five minutes ago as “five minutes ago.”

Other than the joints in my hands having some pesky arthritis from all that tapping on a keyboard for nearly 30 years, what’s the point obsessing over that number? Is 60 all that different from 59? (Here’s a short story on that: No.) Besides, it’s not about the time you’ve spent on earth as much as it is about how you spend the time that’s left. And what’s left is pure gold, and must be spent wisely. I’m not squandering it on tempest-in-a-teapot mudslinging anymore, whether in print or online. It’s just sad and tired, and does nothing to improve anything. I’ve lost the urge to prove that I’m right. It’s good enough that I know that for myself. All of y’all will have to figure it out for yourselves.

All that said, I’ll try to do a better job of blogging (good Goddess that sounds so weird and wrong… it’s like a new haircut… I guess I’ll get used to it) here and there. I’ll aim to do a better job of dusting and knocking the cobwebs down from time to time. (Disclaimer: I’m a shitty housekeeper.)

Anyway, onward to a new year, a new decade, and a new trajectory!

 

 

 

After the fire: returning to Harbin

It was our 10th anniversary last week. We used to spend every anniversary at the place where we were handfasted: the Harbin Hot Springs temple. But we couldn’t, because the temple is gone. And so is Harbin Hot Springs. Well, as we knew it, it is. The Valley Fire swallowed it in a monstrous blaze in 2015, and disgorged nothing but ash and grief.

Little by little, the new Harbin owners have been working to rebuild, but it turned out that they were horrifically underfunded, so progress has been painfully slow. And even with all the money in the world, how could those funky, creaky, wonderful old ramshackle lodges, or the sweet little market full of organic wonders, and the stunning temple ever be rebuilt? That temple was a breathtaking masterpiece of hand-fitted wood, the roof spiraling up like an upside-down morning glory into the sky, topped with a delicate spire that would poke out from atop the thick tree canopy.

I’d seen photos of the ongoing rebuilding process on Harbin’s website, following horrific photos from just after the fire… all that precious, sacred property blackened and crumbling. It was like a death. There just isn’t anywhere on earth like Harbin, with its New-Agey, loving, peaceful vibe, and people who worked and lived there, creating a serene Shangr-La, a respite from the rush and roar of daily life: No phones, no televisions, no amplified sound, no alcohol, no drugs, and yes, frequently no clothes, particularly down by the pools. And yoga. Lots of yoga. Harbin was where you could be comfortable in your own sun-warmed skin, soaking in healing geothermal waters, amid an ever-changing but always similar “community” that flowed in and out of the grounds each week.

Harbin was our very favorite place on earth, and one weird, gray September afternoon nearly four years ago, a tsunami of flame devoured it. It was a crushing loss, too painful to think about, because it seemed impossible that Harbin could ever exist again. But, earlier this year, Harbin announced they were letting in limited numbers of day visitors, and last month, overnight stays in their new “Creekside Caravans,” a little fleet of campers up on one of the hillsides, as well as tent camping.

I asked Joe if he wanted to go back for our anniversary, either to give “new” Harbin a chance, or bid it one final farewell. He was as lukewarm as I about the thought of returning, and like me, assuming we’d be bitterly disappointed. But yet, we hadn’t returned since the fire, and going back one more time felt like a delayed graveside service. Some of our best memories happened at Harbin. We owed it that much, to touch the coffin, turn away, and dab the tears.

So, we reserved a camper, and set out along the back roads through Pope Valley with lower than low expectations. I assumed everything taller than our knees would be gone. As we crossed from Napa to Lake County, we entered into the heavily fire-scarred area… blackened trees grasping the blue sky like twisted skeleton claws… reaching desperately for help that never came. But, at the ground level, it was lush and green, and yellow, orange, and purple wildflowers dotted the hillsides. Even in the inferno’s aftermath, life would not be denied.

We rounded the turn onto Highway 29, and then entered Middletown, and I was amazed that the tiny shopping center across from the high school, as well as the school itself, was still standing. But leaving town as we neared Harbin Springs Road, it felt surreal, like reverse deja-vu… remembering something that never was; a feeling that I haven’t been here before… but I have. The stark lack of a tree canopy was shocking, and more gnarled black bones reached up from the ground. But, here and there, a defiant tree would be sprouting leaves anyway, and in some of the low spots, there were trees that seemed only slightly singed, and some miraculously untouched.

We pulled up to the grounds, and there was not a familiar thing in sight other than that the rebuilt check-in gate was in the same spot as before, as was the parking lot on up ahead, now completely visible for lack of vegetation. We were directed to some mobile units to check in  and catch a bite to eat while waiting for our caravan to be ready, and sat at a picnic table, feeling disoriented and stunned… Wasn’t that over there… and isn’t this were that was… Wow, it looks so tiny without the buildings…

We were both delighted when we pulled up to our caravan, an adorable re-creation of a vintage  ’50s camper, complete with turquoise and cream paint (awww, it matched the old lodges!), and we were astounded by what was available inside: stove, oven, microwave, refrigerator, shower, toilet, and heating and air conditioning. Wow! This is actually kinda sweet!

We quickly unloaded our stuff and headed for the most wonderful spot in the world… the warm pool. We walked the old footpath between where the Meadow Building once stood and on into the pool area, surprised at how the bay laurels and manzanita were springing back, covered in fresh, green foliage. And, birds were singing, bugs were buzzing… there was far more life than I imagined. I was anticipating that everything would be gone or dead, and thrilled to be wrong.

Up at the pool area, the good news is that there are now SEVEN bathrooms; the bad news is that they’re in a big ugly mobile unit. That said… there used to only be one stinky, funky toilet in the steamy, funky dressing room and, well, there’s something to be said for clean, ample toiletude!

We ditched our clothes in a dressing tent, and then there it was… the beautiful blue warm pool, reminiscent of the old one… same shape, same rails, and warm water that feels like sinking into an angel’s sighs. And… what is this? No crowds? Free space anywhere we like? Wowsers! Back in the old days, sometimes you had to wind your way through bodies just to find a place to stand. Now, it was almost like having it to ourselves. In fact, at one point, we did have the warm pool to ourselves, and that has never happened before! I took the opportunity to practice some Watsu on Joe. Clearly, I need some professional training…  I dunked myself while trying to turn him! Oops! Oh well, at least there were no witnesses!

And the sauna. Oh. My. GODDESS. The new sauna is a gazillion times better than the old one. Three times the size, plenty of room for anyone and everyone. The old one felt like being in a can of hot, sweating sardines. The new one gets two thumbs way up!

We spent our evenings relaxing at our caravan, with the entire expanse of star-filled nighttime sky before us, and in the morning, rather than having to get dressed and go to the cafe for coffee (my main complaint about old Harbin), we made our coffee on our little stove, sat at our little table, and gazed out at, well… the rows of other campers. BUT… there were green hills in the distance, and birds, lizards, and squirrels flitting and scampering about right outside.

One morning, after a long, leisurely morning soak in the pool, while drying off on the blissfully uncrowded sundeck, I decided that new Harbin was equal parts heartbreak and hope. It will never, can never, be what it was. Even so, it was obvious that what it was becoming could still be something pretty special.

“I’m not nearly as disappointed as I thought I’d be,” I commented to Joe. “I think this will really be wonderful some day. Not what we knew, but wonderful in its own way.”

He agreed wholeheartedly, and said he actually liked the campers better than the lodges, and when we came back, he’d rather stay in the campers again. (Access to coffee first thing in the morning matters!)

In addition to discovering that Harbin is doing its best to recover, there were some amazing highlights:

One, just at dusk near the pools, we saw a deer! I was overjoyed! It was young, and alone, but I’d assumed that the Harbin deer were dead or gone, never to return. But there he was, happily chewing the bushes and grass like nothing horrible had ever happened. What a miracle!

Two, I was able to see my very, very, very favorite massage therapist, Cora. I nearly did a backflip when I saw her name on the roster, and when we saw each other again, we hugged so tight and girl-squeeeed. Just getting a massage with Cora is worth the drive up there. I’m so happy to see that, like Harbin, she too is recovering, and can smile again.

Three, while sitting at lunch one day, we made a new friend, Lisa, also an “old-timer,” and we chatted about the old days, and agreed that there was hope. That was a slice of old Harbin – sit at a table, make a friend. And then her friend, Cameron, pulled up with us too, and we got to talking… she was an old-timer too, also a writer, hasn’t written in awhile, needs to get back to it, asked me about the book I’m writing, and then I asked her about her books, and…. wait a minute… What did you say the name of one of your books was? “The Bad Girl’s Guide to the Party Life”?? And also, “The Bad Girl’s Guide to Getting What You Want”???

Shut.

UP.

I have both of those sly, sexy little books! LOVE THEM! You mean you are THE Cameron? Cameron Tuttle? THE “Bad Girl”????!!!

SHUT!

UP!!!!

Oh, you better believe I fan-girled all over her! I met an icon! How cool is that?

And, there was a fourth thing: While we were basking in the sunshine in the warm pool one morning, against the far wall — “our” spot — a man holding a small blue flowerpot of bright pink and purple flowers waded through the pool and placed them on that back wall ledge where, once upon a time, a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers appeared there every morning as if by magic. Ahhh… someone else “remembers.”

Those of us who remember… we need to return. Old Harbin was weathered and seasoned by decades of peaceful, gentle, loving energy that permeated everything. That will only happen again if those of us who remember start returning and infusing it with that old energy.

A place isn’t rebuilt merely with boards and nails. It’s rebuilt with memories. It’s rebuilt with love. You can rebuild a structure, but only love rebuilds love. And that part’s up to us.

 

 

 

 

 

What Would Jesus Do about Notre Dame?

The Notre Dame Cathedral in flames, April 15, 2019. Photo by NBC News.

Watching flames engulf the Notre Dame Cathedral on the evening news was simply stunning. I was — am — saddened to see such an architectural masterpiece, with such rich history, go up in flames. The building itself is unparalleled, and the artwork and artifacts inside irreplaceable. And the stained glass… just the stained glass is a pinnacle of human artistic achievement.

I am not Catholic, nor am I on the same page with the Catholic Church philosophically or spiritually. However, I truly appreciate what the loss of such a historical treasure represents. I don’t feel sad for the Catholic Church (it is grotesquely well-funded), but I do have empathy for those who are mourning the loss of this cathedral. Weddings, funerals, christenings and comfort were found by many, through the centuries. The building has more history and meaning than just the material from which it was constructed.

This 12th century cathedral miraculously withstood the French Revolution, and World Wars I and II, unscathed. How ironic that not war or malice or earthquake or flood but simple human error was the likely cause of its ruin. The exact cause of the fire is still under investigation but it appears that it was simply an accident. Oops.

As the flames disappear and officials inspect what is left of this scorched structure, it’s becoming apparent that the cathedral can’t be rebuilt exactly as it was. And maybe it shouldn’t be, because a modern fire sprinkler system is clearly needed. One report said that even if it were possible to completely recreate it, there aren’t trees in France big enough to be used to make the wooden beams. All that can be done is to sweep up the mess, wash away the smoke and char, and decide whether to rebuild or stand back and consider the options.

Here in California, we are well aware of the devastation that fire can cause. Just ask anyone who lived in Santa Rosa or Paradise during the recent colossal fires that turned these towns to scorched earth. So many died. At least no one died in the Notre Dame fire. That’s something to be thankful for. But should it really be rebuilt, exactly as it was?

Consider the 9-11 Memorial that was built rather than attempting to reconstruct the twin towers of the World Trade Center. I have been to that memorial, and standing next to it is about the most eery and surreal feeling I’ve ever experienced. There’s a heavy, solemn energy to it that is palpable. There was a recognition that what was there could never be again, and anything built in its place would carry a legacy of horror and death… Better to create something that inspires us to think about the fragility and unfairness of life, and strive to be better people.

Like Santa Rosa and Paradise, what’s gone is gone. To recreate them exactly is impossible. Like the World Trade Center, maybe what was isn’t what should be in its place going forward.

To date, more than a billion dollars has been pledged by wealthy French individuals and businesses, as well as donations coming in from around the world, to get cracking and clean up the site and rebuild it. Let’s just curb our philanthropy for a moment and consider that the Catholic Church allegedly seeks to do the will of Jesus Christ and support and follow his teachings. (Pedophilia issue notwithstanding.) This being Holy Week, let’s pause for a moment and ask, “What Would Jesus Do?” Imagine if he were  presented with a billion dollars to be spent in his name, and the choice was to rebuild a fancy, expensive building or to use it helping the poor, sick, homeless and hungry. Do I even have to articulate his immediate response? It’s obvious.

So before one board is hammered and one nail is pounded, let’s consider the angles of this sad historical loss:

1. The building is destroyed. After the tears, take a breath and accept it. No matter what arises in its place, it will not be that historic building that withstood war and history and time. It’s gone.
2. There are people sick and starving all over the world, and a billion dollars would go a long way toward helping them. Has one dime been spent to help them?
3. What Would Jesus Do?

Yes, the image of Notre Dame in flames is horrific. But I ask you…. is it more horrific than this:

This Pulitzer Prize winning photo by South African photojournalist Kevin Carter, also known as “The Struggling Girl” was taken in Sudan in 1993, as the near-death child was observed by a patient vulture waiting for a meal. The photographer, ovewhelmed with grief from the starvation he saw took his own life a few months later.

A billion dollars to rebuild a building. Is there even a dime for the starving?

 

Matthew 25:40-45 New International Version (NIV)

⁴⁰ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

⁴¹ “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.⁴² For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, ⁴³ I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

⁴⁴ “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

⁴⁵ “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

 

(For more information about Kevin Carter and “The Struggling Girl”, click here.)