Going and Growing

You've got to GO through it to GROW through it


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My Baby Moved Away Today

A poem for my children as I just passed another 
Mother's Day and another birthday:

My baby moved away today
and took grandbaby Mae.
Her and Him and all their stuff
North Carolina they now stay.
I have another child here
my son, my oldest boy. 
If you see him tell him please
to bring his Mom some joy. 

My circle of support shrinks daily
as I struggle to survive. 
My children have all flown the nest
and have moved on with their lives. 
My son became a father, 
my oldest daughter now youngest son.
My baby is a mommy now,
our lives are on the run.
Hustle, bustle, push, pull, drag
catching up when we can.
Long gone are the days of driving
 'round in our minivan.

A lot of love and work dumped in
to them my childen, see
Each one of them raised up I pray
To be who they chose to be.
My lonely heart breaks more and more
each and every day
For the babes that they once used to be 
now leave me in the gray. 
As I push back single tears of fear
for troubles they might find 
I also pray they've grown up now 
to be happy, strong and kind. 

My days of "teaching" may be gone
But now I am their friend. 
I now can undo errors made
To avoid a bitter end.
I've loved my children way too much
not enough and in between. 
Part of what a family learns
As we struggle to be seen. 

My kids and I will be alright 
No matter who flies where
It's love that we all talk about
And make sure that we share. 
My heart may still be broken
and my tears yes, still may fall
I've raised some strong-willed children,
and I know that they will call.

When comes the day they need their Mom
When only she will do
I'll be there on the other side
ready with my "I love you".

(c)  2017 Dawn Bennett


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“Thou Shalt Not Steal”

I read the most interesting perspective on stealing. It started with the declaration that whatever we have is not ours anyway, so that makes stealing doubly wrong. I believe it’s accurate to say that when we think of stealing, and the fact that it’s considered wrong, we naturally think of tangible objects. We can’t steal stuff from our neighbors, we can’t rob banks, we can’t “sample” fruit from the produce section. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

As I began to travel down the dusty road of my thoughts, I began to think to myself, but what about the intangible things people own: our thoughts, our feelings, our identity. What about that? How do those things fit into the equation of stealing and God and all that stuff. Here’s my thought:

If everything we have  and everything we own is indeed not necessarily ours but on loan, as in it was given to us (a big prim and proper religious term is bestowed upon us) then our identity also is a gift…and given. The ability to be a free thinker is given to us. The desire to love and be loved is a gift given to us. Stealing is not allowed. Who are are, what we stand for, how we see ourselves…it’s all a gift given to us. We are not allowed to steal another person’s identity. Let me be clear here, I’m not talking about their online identity (although clearly that’s wrong too) I’m talking about their gender identity, sexual identity, how they see themselves in this world and how they expect to be seen.

There are lots of hate groups who have decided that to “be LGBTQ” is wrong and those of us who identify under that acronym need to be “corrected”. (For those who are unfamiliar LGBTQ stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer). Folks who align with L-G-B are talking about their sexuality (very different and not related to gender); those who align with T are referring to their gender (male, female, both, neither); those who align with Q could be referring to either their sexual or gender identity. Further information can be found at PFLAG.org or HRC.org because this is not the blog post to go into this in depth.

Back to the stealing thing. When God (however you align with God or what represents a divine authority in your world) says stealing is wrong it is an abomination (another big scary religious word) and God cries. ALL of everything in what we call this world is made from the abundance of a divine authority who far exceeds any human capacity or authority.

When an organization or a person steals the hopes and dreams, the hard personal effort or blood-sweat-and-tears personal commitment from another person, a crime [against humanity] has been committed. We are what we are and have what we have as a gift. None of us owns any of this. We leave this “world” with the same as we came into it with – nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

When a person decides someone else is wrong for living into their full authenticity (i.e. sexual or gender identity) and advances are made toward taking it away, i.e. stealing it, we are no longer living as we are instructed. When someone robs another of a life worth living, a dream and a hope of a better life, a gesture of giving and receiving love…God cries. We are not allowed to steal.

Thou Shalt Not Steal. Not property. Not grapes. Not a person’s identity. Not a person’s joy.

Mind your business. Mind your manners. Mind yourself.


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Hollowed Out

Hollowed Out

It’s hard to go through life feeling like a carved pumpkin. Sometimes the faces can be scary. Sometimes they are funny, but never does it feel good to have your guts ripped out. What I have found to be helpful in these times is to write a gratitude list.

It may be hard to find things that I am grateful for, but that’s when the real digging begins.

Dust off the shovel and till the soil of your life.

Are you breathing? Have you been given a new day in which to make free choices? Do you have ONE friend in whom you can confide? It’s a good day.

When your guts are lying on the ground and your seeds are scattered, that is the time to look for the remnant that remains. Life can be hard.

But, if there is breath in your body, you can find a shred of gratitude.

Most pumpkins wind up with a candle inside to light up the darkness. This is the time to take your hollowed out self and bring in some light. Sit. Rest. Glow.

It’s hard to go through life feeling like a carved pumpkin, hollowed out. But finding the little things in life to be grateful for: breath, free choice, the comfort of a friend…it’s a good day.


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Mi Gente (My People)

Mi gente is Spanish for “my people.” In a recent conversation with a Puerto Rican friend about the massacre in Orlando, at which 49 brown and black people were shot dead, there is strong opinion that the coverage of the event has been whitewashed. “Whitewashed” is a term used by cultures other than Caucasians and describes the stripping of all things organic and cultural to a particular event. It is not a positive term. It is not a positive action. I want to bring this conversation into its rightful place, because in some sense people of color (POC) have been stripped bare of the vigils that have been held in many places of faith over the last week.

I attended several of the ceremonies and I’d have to agree, there was a definite lack of representation from the brown and black communities. The sadness is exacerbated by the fact that it was a gay bar that was shot up and the vast majority of the victims were part of the LGBT+ community. This community, is mi gente, even though I identify as a cisgender, straight, white person. Some POC would not allow me to claim this, and in all sincerity it is a stretch, I agree.

Let’s take a moment and unpack these thoughts. Why are they mi gente? Well, because half my family and one of my children is gay and I am an ally, so we are all part of the LGBT+ family, together. They are mi gente because we are all children of God and loved unconditionally and equally by our Creator. So, our familial lines bleed together as our bodies and hearts bleed together. Why then is it a stretch for me to claim them as mi gente? Because to do that whitewashes and attempts to normalize the atrocity, as if I suffer as the brown and black community suffers. Which is simply not so. I do not profess to intimately know the culture and customs that white America has stripped from POC, those who invest their time, talent and treasure in the same economy I do.

The majority of the vigils that were held this week to mourn for Orlando where organized and attended primarily by white folks. Where are the brown people? Where are the black people? Why are they not standing up? Why are they underrepresented? It is not for lack of want, I can assure you. Many are in hiding, in fear of additional victimization and harm. (This I know because I met with them.) They are huddled together in private masses and vigils held in homes where safety is not an issue. (This I know because I met with them.) Some would argue and say that the brown and black community should be grateful that the white community “stepped up” to organize gatherings. And those I spoke to are glad and grateful the white community has mourned along with them.

As a white American, I want to ask where our support for our brown and black brothers and sisters is on a daily basis. How do we engage with their culture in a way that celebrates our diversity and agape love for one another? It’s a nice sentiment to come out in droves to show support after tragedy; But white folks, where is the support during times of peace and harmony? How dare we commandeer their vigils? How dare we profess to know the ache that lives in their homes and in their hearts? How dare we whitewash religious services with comfortability and practices that are common to the mainline, white, Christian community in hopes to ease their pain?

To mourn with mi gente, I need to learn their language of love, so I can love them how they need to be loved, not how I perceive it so.  We must learn to love our multi-cultural country –  embrace our diversity. We must learn to sit in our discomfort and listen to the pains that spill from our brown and black family. I do not write this post to divide us, but rather to unite us. While my words may seem harsh, in reality it is my attempt to raise awareness of the additional victimization that takes place when white America rushes in to solve an issue we don’t know anything about.

The white LGBT+ community is a sibling to the brown and black LGBT+ communities.

How can we make a difference then? We can listen. We can support. We can mourn by the side of our ethnic family. We are all one family, true, as we all come from one Creator. However, around half of the victims were brown and the other half were black. There was not a single white victim. Therefore, as a white American, to claim them as mi gente only works to ease my pain. If I am truly interested in showing up for my ethnic siblings, and sincerely desire to ease their pain, it must be on their terms. In the blurred lines of the kingdom of God they are mi gente, but the love they need at this time will acknowledge, respect, and appreciate our cultural differences.


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Twinkies and Chips

Note: I have since moved into a different industry, but this this still good food for thought, pun intended.

Sometimes the food is not so bad at the bottom of the food chain. Sure, it’s not champagne and escargot. But, hey, you need a Twinkie and bag of chips every now and again to satisfy.

I was thinking about this at work today, as the clamor in the office rose up. I work in an often hostile work environment. It occurred to me, on this particular day, that being a bottom feeder is not always a bad thing. Take for instance this newly redesigned database which holds critical information on the taxpayers in my State. The darn thing was full of bugs, as the previous version was written in-house by our IT guys. Nice guys and helpful sometimes. So, as the story goes there was not enough justification to purchase a hi-tech system, one that would allow us to link nationally to a database that would all but eliminate error. So, our IT guys, yes the same folks who wrote the first version, redesigned a new one. Hmmm.

That’s not all. What really causes heartburn is that there was no rollout of static data, we used live data since we had the chance to test multiple scenarios in a live setting. Hmmmm. I sure hope those of you who are Techies are clinching your jaw and are a bit queasy right this moment. Anyway, today, I found a bug or two (yes, in the newly redesigned version) and inquired of the powers that be on how to resolve it. (This is where the Twinkie comes in). In my ignorance of all things IT, I failed to realize how temperamental program writers can be. Turns out there is a certain “personality” written into each program and it behaves differently in alternate settings. As I continued on in my search of the mistake, I asked for help. My co-worker overheard and graciously chimed in. Turns out he has a degree in programming but is not currently working in that role. The writer took issue of the bugs that were discovered and revealed. My coworker took advantage of an opportunity to share some of his knowledge and a few of us were, just there. In the periphery. In my case, looking cute (smiles). I thought to myself at one point, “Oh, how I wish I knew what they were talking about. It would be so helpful to be able to solve some of these issues on my own. Or at least be able to speak some informed words into the issue”. Wait! Stop right there lady. There’s a saying that goes something like this: You can’t be good at everything. I was grateful this day, because although I found the error, my job ended at reporting it. Clearly I have no idea how to fix it. Don’t need to. Not my job. That is someone else’s specialty. Someone else’s talent.

I learned that sometimes ignorance can in fact be bliss. Well, bliss may be an overstatement. But, it can be convenient so say the least. By my not knowing anything about programming, I was able to avoid an office argument, hostile negotiations, hurt feelings, frustration, perspiration, palpitation and provocation. The only real residual harm done to me is that the explosion happened in my office, at my computer where the information was displayed on the screen. There was a bit of clean up from the “food fight”, which is okay with me. I had a Twinkie and a bag of chips in my desk when it was all done. So, I sat back and did what many bottom-feeders do. I ate to my heart’s content. Enjoyed every bite.


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It’s A Good Friday

It’s later in the month, later than I’d like it to be actually. I’ve been waiting for inspiration to give you something I felt was worth reading. It finally came today. It’s true, it’s real, it’s honest. It’s a page from my journal this morning. I know I’m not the only one in this quagmire, maybe that’s why I felt it’s worth reading. Happy Easter to all of humanity.

…..

“It’s a Good Friday!

Abba, so much is changing, but you have stayed the same. The tomb is empty this morning. No one knows where you are or where you went.

This season of Lent has been so incredibly painful. I’ve been so far from you – and so close to you. I’m scared, I’m isolated, I’m exhausted, I’m angry, I’m so incredibly sad. I’m eager, I’m demanding, I’m questioning, I’m forgetful, I’m desperate. I have anxiety; I’ve traveled far and wide to find peace – to create peace – to upset peace – and to enjoy the peace. It’s Good Friday, and like the rest of the fold, I’m seeking because the tomb is empty and I don’t know where you went.

Ferguson is still looking for you. Naples says they have you, the golden roads are supposed to prove that. Nashville sings all about you, but the people are still dying of hunger and thirst.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to see you in everything and be grateful, because honestly, when I don’t get what I want (and the way I perceive I need it to be), I think you either suck or you’re looking at someone else’s life. I mean, there’s lots of us down here trying to figure this crazy shit out. Maybe you got me mixed up?

It’s supposed to rain here Sunday – I’m looking forward to that. Everything is better after some cleansing rain. The sun will surely rise and shine, that’s all it knows how to do. Thanks for that too.

Thanks for never taking your eye off me. I’ll try to reciprocate that a bit better today. I love you.”