Love Love Love. Love is all you need...

...and all there is.
I was surprised by how deeply I was moved by the celebration in the streets for the overturning of Prop 8's anti-gay marriage Californian clusterfuck.  I was chatting with a guy from Ames, Iowa (home to 'Pajama Game' cornfed folk--who COULD get married in their state...Where the FUCK had we gone wrong?), and he was nonchallant about Iowa's fair play.  In any event, however we got there, WELL DONE California.  It took you a while, but you came around to social justice.
When the proposition was up at bat before, I was kind of apathetic as I was fighting for my life in our broken healthcare system.  Yeah, tell me I can't marry and it will hurt my feelings and get my hackles up, but tell me I can't have healthcare and it potentially ends my life.  Very quickly.  Exhausted from a decade of having to justify my exisitence and right to it, I kind of equated the two issues as , "Would you like air to breathe or a comfey velvet snuggie? Your choice."  The two issues were miles apart.  In the immediacy of crappy health and no access to treatment, they seemed so.  But in reality, they were not.
No one, no ONE, in America should ever be made to feel less than.  We are equal, beautiful, vital parts of the whole.  The issue of marriage and the denial of the opportunity boils down to religion driven-, fear based bullying and bigotry.  I kind of think if Jesus were to meet the buffoons condemning His people in His name, He'd just shake his head, sigh and say, "Moby was right.  Everything is wrong."
How could religion, in good conscience, deny anyone the ability to sanctify and legally protect their union?  Spirit is expansive, inclusive and made at its very core of the soul sole ingredient of ALL--love. To legally deny love the right to exist is as senseless as a Britney Spears hit.  Just utter nonsense.
Tonight, as I wiped back tears at the surprising emotional tsunami I felt, I actually thought, "Wow.  Not that anyone could stomach the thought of a lifetime of me, it sure is nice to have the option..."  {well, actually, the one I'd choose would rather have an unanaesthantized root canal than imagine a lifetime of me, but such is life...}
Knowing that I could have the right to legally and spiritually announce and protect my love, just like everyone else in America, made me happy, peaceful and no longer a sad member of the Less Than- demographic I had previously been designated to.
For today, social justice won the day and said, in a clear and loud voice, all people are created equal and shall be treated as such.

Wow, that rings a bell.  Novel concept, huh?

Posted via email from hermesalchemist's posterous

Pure Joy.

It's funny how the Christmas season makes it seem like it's been a thousand years since I last hugged my Mom. And at the same time, it was just yesterday. I still feel her presence around me to a very strong degree.

We were people cut from the same cloth--generally laughing, embracing new concepts and odd ideas, a little left of normal. Hey, she was one of the very first people to come up with the concept of aerobics classes for women, water aerobics, she took and taught belly dancing in the '70s in conservative Connecticut. She acted, taught music, studied myotherapy, took rock climbing though DEATHLY afraid of heights, was involved in numerous acts of charity, heart, compassion and friendship.

To me she was a loving, laughing, singing, shining example of what it means to be a luminous human being. Surviving multiple tragedies and always coming through the other side more grateful, more joyous, more loving.

I remember the profound joy she took in the holidays. Starting the day after Thanksgiving, she became giddy like a child, unwrapping precious ornaments and figures, each having a unique history that we enjoyed hearing each year. She also spent Christmas remembering her beloved Aunt Dottie, another free spirit guided by a love of life, family and song—and who was taken too young.

As Jane was putting out the Christmas elves that Mom & Dottie made the year I was born, she said, "These are kind of creepy." I could see where she'd say that. Without the history, they are just a bunch of 40+ year old felt scraps and detached heads--like there had been some horrible incident at Santa's holiday soirée. Perhaps a tragic baking accident or a serial Grinch.

But to me, when I see these sorry little dwarves, I hear her laugh, see her tear up at the thought of Aunt Dottie, smell chocolate log cookies baking in the oven, and hear Julie Andrews singing "Bells of Christmas."

I am so glad to see my brother sharing our genetic love of Christmas with his kids, telling the stories, making sure the lights are just right, as my niece, feigning annoyance, rolls her eyes and says "Dad just has to tell the stories about every ornament..." secretly loving the fact that he does.

When I found this picture today, in a box not opened for 20 years, I was transported. I remember the camera that took it, a Polaroid Swinger, was a Christmas staple.

Amongst the collection of paper scraps, faded pictures of forgotten moments, torn snapshots, the smell of mold and old chemicals, memories lay ready to trigger the heart.

I wish my Mom had lived to see her beautiful grandkids. She could have shared the same old dusty stories and ornaments, with a vibrant and heartfelt love, which made them sacred.

Mom, I miss you, but as it is Christmas, I hear your laugh, I feel you here.

Thank you.