Humanarium Revisited

Humanarium (Revisited)

(ˈhjuːmən err-e-um)

n. an abstract but primal place. A place where you can be as human as humanly possible and feel no shame, because even shame is on par with pride, justice, and glory.

  1. : a place where you can lean against your enemy almost as equally as your friend and you have nothing to prove.
  2. : a place where one can talk about holiness and earthiness in the same sentence.
    • a : it is difficult to tell if such places are created only by great effort, or rather by merely forgetting that one ever left them.
    • : a place that a good church tries to replicate, but rarely achieves.
  3. : a place where the only way to offend everyone is by being pretentious. But even then, everyone just shakes their head with pursed lips and then pats said pretentious one on the back and moves on, because they are too busy seeking reality.
  4. : a place where one’s age is meaningless. Where one is a child and a burdened adult and in the twilight at the same time.
  5. : a state in which one understands Bob Dylan songs, and/or feels like they are living in a permanent Bob Dylan song.
  6. : a place where children thrive and move and have their being, and elderly smile like no one is watching.
  7. : a space in which one can be honest, not afraid of the consequences.
  8. : a place where one can lift up their head high and not feel above anyone else.
  9. : a space where one can meet God, herself, himself, or their great love–with equal intensity.
  10. : an atmosphere where it’s almost impossible to tell if one is laughing or crying. Or doing both simultaneously. But you have to let them do it. They need it.
  11. : places where a friend, even for only a few minutes, is a friend for a lifetime.
  12. : a place saturated with that feeling, when one has been drinking, that comes after trying to be the life of the party and trying to run away from the party; when you’re right in the zone of total vulnerability and surrender but have not lost any of your faculties.
  13. a place where your political affiliations mean about as much as your hair color.

Seek these places once in a while. Create them when needed.

 

Why They Call It a Crazy Train

There are reasons people call it a Crazy Train

Huffing, puffing, fuming

44833 / Pixabay

Like a train, crazy is big. It’s heavy. It can’t be steered–only directed by planned pathways. It’s loud and dangerous. It’s thundering and crushing. It carries virtually incalculable weight.

However, it can be jumped from provided one accounts for the risks and pain of jumping. And–with great amounts of effort, energy, and time–it can be stopped.

Crazy momentum

WikiImages / Pixabay

FaceTime calls with children

I wonder why some of us hang our heads when we grieve

geralt / Pixabay

Today, I talked to my son on the phone (FaceTime) the who is currently 9 hours ahead of me. It was incredibly hard.

 

He asked where I was. When I told him I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He looked away. I asked him where he was, how the flight was, what he watched–all questions which he deferred to his mom for the answers. I could see that he was getting a little frustrated. At the mention of bed, he began to get upset. Tears even.

Not atypical young child behavior, right? Right…

Connection lost…retrying…

At this point I’m feeling guilt well up within me. Guilt is a monster that is always rattling its chains but at times like these it takes over. It pulls at my clothing and squeezes my internal organs.

After reconnecting, it is clear that he is trying to talk to me, to do the “right” thing, but just wants to end it. As he cries–through the buffering, freezing segments of video–I look at his face and I just want to touch him and tell him it’s ok. He’s not on a hot seat of any kind and he doesn’t need to be polite for me. It’s hard not to think he is rightfully upset about circumstances. I am sorry for this. I tell him again that I love him and I’ll see him later. Have a good time. Eventually I hang up on the spinning “Reconnecting…” graphic.

Now the monster screams and berates me. It pulls at my hair and punches me in the teeth. I sob uncontrollably.

Eventually

Zauberin / Pixabay

 

One day I hope he will understand, and forgive me. Some day soon I hope that I can reassure him. I hope that he will feel my hope for something better on the horizon. I hope he believes I love him so much. It won’t always be like this.

 

Leave me not alone

The dreaming tree has died

katja / Pixabay

“Tongue tied, nerves as big as boulders
Why mom? I thought I was your soldier?
My brother sits by me
Buckled into the car seat

Feel the thirst, it’s time for pulling over
Into the truckstop on my daddy’s shoulder
Out back where they plant all the trees
Ten feet away my daddy buries me”

–Blind Melon, Car Seat

No such thing as a Real Job

Always under construction

Confession: I turned my work into a job and the world that mattered the most to me into work.

Lemme ‘splain.

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Connecting Dots

He doesn't know a way out, but knows a way IN, Precious...

Figuring OUT

 

Sometimes I connect dots, of which I do not know whether they are supposed to connect.

I have to try. If I don’t, how can I make any sense of “supposed to”?

*Warning* If you require only happy posts, this one is not for you. It does have light at the end of it though.

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Women opt for divorce 2 out of 3 times

I heard an interesting statement recently, from a psychologist I know. Not only do women choose divorce 66% of the time over men, but they view their husbands very differently, throughout and after. “Women, who are more relational, view their husbands as chapters in their lives, and can move on more easily. Men have a harder time in divorces–they see the whole book as about their wives, and therefore now have to go and get a whole new story.”

This would explain a lot of the other stats on men and the fallout of divorce. Peter Pan Syndrome is just the beginning.

God, help us.

Yes drill sergeant

My twisted-side ego is like a drill sergeant but one that wants me to fail. It screams in my face when I screw up, fall down, question things.

Real drill sergeants, however, ultimately want you to succeed…or quit.

But wait, maybe that negative side of me is harassing me in order to help me succeed in the end. Could it be that there is a nobler purpose in that berating, negative psyche?

ArmyAmber / Pixabay

Bear with me now…

How could something from me want me to fail? Maybe this thing is EXACTLY like a drill sergeant. Maybe I should just answer “yes drill sergeant!”

You freakin idiot! Go faster! “Sir, yessir!”

Look what you did, Lewis! Stop it or you’ll ruin everything! “Sir, yessir!”

 

I think I heard Titus once say that anxiety is good because that’s how the rent gets paid.

 

 

Feminism: Blaming isn’t Helping

I saw this comment on Huffington Post and I’m glad it ties up the problem so succinctly. It’s in response to Elisabeth Hasselbeck’s question to Nick Adams about men in decline because of feminism.

“How, specifically, are men not allowed to “be manly”? Not allowed to get away with rape? Not allowed to beat up other men without being arrested? What are the benchmarks here….Are men not being allowed to play football? Hunt? Curse? Drink beer? Good grief. Tell us, Elisabeth – how are our men “less masculine”. Because I see men working hard every day. Being good husbands, fathers, and friends. They’re providing for their families. They’re always learning new technology. They’re traveling. They’re reading, creating, being imaginative. They’re enjoying life. So…tell us. How are they “not masculine’?”

We’re men, we’re men in tights

Here would be my response to Phyllis T (if I wanted to sign up for Huff Post, which I don’t):

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Thoughts on Sunday

Bartender please
Fill my glass for me
With the wine you gave Jesus that set him free
After three days in the ground

Bartender you see
The wine that’s drinking me
Came from the vine that strung Judas from the devil’s tree
It’s roots deep, deep in the ground

I’m on bended knee
Father, please

Dave, Bartender, with an atypical introduction

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