When? Why? What are They Thinking?

So I was driving behind a car the other day that was covered with obnoxious vinyl lettering all over the rear window and trunk. I felt distracted by it and when we stopped at an intersection, I took this picture...



What I'm wondering now is... when did the LDS Church take to advertising their faith in such tacky ways? Seems unlike the church so I'm going to give the organization the benefit of the doubt and blame the hideousness on the driver of the car which, may I add, I've seen TWICE since I've taken the picture.

But, really! Is this necessary??? For the record... I couldn't read the text until I was stopped right up on the rear bumper of the car to take the photo. I had no idea what he was advertising until AFTER I took the picture and I was actually shocked when I realized it was for the church. So bizarre.

Knowing

I watched Knowing last night and I'm still buzzing from the adventure. The creators of that movie did a damn fine job with building atmospheric tension! I was literally slumped down on the couch, hiding behind a throw cushion for most of the movie. Then, when it went entirely through the completion of the tale - of which I was surprised, because I thought they would end at the more gentler space, without showing all the details - my ears started ringing and my head started throbbing. I sat there wide-eyed and slack-jawed and oh so very curious. I felt moved and changed and excited and scared and blessed all at once.

I totally got the meaning behind the movie. I got the knowing. That happens for me a lot lately and I can tell when it's going to happen by how I react to the previews. I still haven't gone to see My Sister's Keeper for that very reason. Every time I saw the preview, I was sobbing uncontrollably by the end of it. I figured that two hours of that intense emotion is not something for which I am quite ready.

But, I'm totally off topic...

My father had wanted to see a different ending. I'm thinking he wanted to see the "happily and together eternally after" version, judging by his statements. His wife, while she got the ending, seemed to feel that it was relevent and made sense, she still thought the movie wasn't that great overall. She is not a fan of creepy movies and had no idea what she was getting herself into when she picked it up. She likes Nicholas Cage so, for her, it was a sure bet that seemingly turned sour.

I felt reverent after the movie ended and as though I had just witnessed some science fiction lover's version of what I learned while growing up in the Church. When they started delving into what the children were Knowing, I could not believe how well it followed what the Church teaches about the Last Days. I said as much to the room and my father agreed.

His wife was sitting to my right on the opposite end of the couch. I felt her energy bristle as she raised her hand to interject. She does that when my father won't stop talking and she wants to say something. I get it, but sometimes I put myself in her shoes and I feel frustrated. I imagine myself raising my hand to speak, as I did when I was in elementary school, and I feel myself wanting to scream. So, I'm not sure if the bristling came from wanting to scream or because she was offended by my statement.

"I'd like to point out that it's not the Church," she said, putting so much stress on the word Church that I turned to look at her, "that teaches that. It's Revelations in the Bible."

I was curious about what she was feeling in that moment. I experienced her as overly defensive of her Church, which is a common experience with her. If ever I question the Church on any level, she either physically leaves the room in an obviously disgusted manner or energetically takes herself elsewhere so she goes blind, deaf and dumb until the controversial conversation has ended. I believe it's because she has a lot of fear when people question the religion she loves as though, by their mere questioning of or disagreeing with the Church, somehow it makes it less true. Or, perhaps, it's because she fears that even hearing someone question the Church weakens her testimony. I have no idea and these are only my versions of her story.

"I understand that it's in the Bible," I said to the room. "I said 'the Church' because I was raised in 'the Church' and that's where I learned about Revelations."

I'm still thinking about the movie and its implications. I found myself wondering if I would hear the call when it came time and I'm wondering if I will trust myself to do whatever is asked of me. I know that there are a lot of people who would say, "It's just a dumb friggin' movie, Angie. And of the science fiction genre to boot!" Yeah. I know it is.

And, somehow, it seemed like so much more than just a movie.

Community

A few years ago, when I officially took leave of the religion in which I was raised, I felt lonely. Leaving a religion that had been a part of me for my whole life - or, a religion of which I had always been a part - meant that I not only left the organization, but also the community, the social structure and many of the people. My life had been about meetings and scriptures and more meetings. My social life had circled around my church. My friends were all in my church. My family members, for the most part, were all in the church. Church in every aspect of my world.

For a long time, after my exit, I felt disassociated and dislocated and I sought a replacement. I wanted friends who had like-minds and with whom I could relate in healthy, non-religious ways. Because I left on my own terms, without any ire or angst or disgust toward the church, I didn't really blend well with the typical ex-Mormons who, for seemingly years after their departure, had a bitter axe to forcefully grind. Because I didn't care what the church (and still don't, for the most part) was doing "wrong" toward all of mankind, I didn't get wrapped up in the indignant tirades that many of them would lead.

And, sadly, because I had relied for all of my life on the words of the prophet, the church leaders, my teachers and my parents to tell me what I was supposed to do and when, I had no idea where to turn or how. I had a difficult time making decisions on my own and even more difficulty deciding what to do with my time, now that I had so much of it on my hand. In this space, I discovered a new place to learn. After having so much of my life committed to religion, when I was asked to commit only two hours each week to learn about being the best me possible, I jumped in with both feet and said, "Absolutely, YES!"

I believed - and still do - the basic principals of the gospel. Treat others as I wish to be treated. Love one another. Follow the ten commandments and be charitable to those around me, etc. Although I left the religious organization, I did not leave behind my values and still adhere to the basic "goodness" with which I was raised.

Although, some things have changed. I now believe that everyone has a right to be happy - no matter their age, race, gender, gender preference, religious beliefs or financial class. I also believe that we live more than one life - that our souls are eternal and return to this earth realm time and again at the soul's discretion to learn whatever it is they want to gain during this life. And I believe everyone is going to heaven.

Along the way, I've discovered that there is community outside of religion. I've discovered there are good people that believe in the same things I do and are not part of any particular religion. I have found that there are people who want the best for this world and believe in heaven and that we are all worthy of love, but have never attended a religious service. I have found a group of friends that believe empowering one another raises all of us to a higher level, together. That when one of us succeeds, all of us succeed. That no one is going to be left behind simply because they have chosen to marry someone of the same gender, or have chosen to not get married at all. I have a group of friends that believe in helping one another to find their genius attributes and to live in that genius is beneficial for the whole world.

I feel blessed to be part of such an amazing community. I feel happy knowing that each new day is a chance to prove to myself and to God that I am Love. I am the woman I was sent here to be.

Waxing

I am going to wax religious for a bit here. Or perhaps there is a more accurate description of this upcoming post. Perhaps it is a rant. Perhaps it is a rave. Whatever it is, I am on my soapbox so if you are disinterested in reading anything not-upbeat about religion, then turn back now.

Eh-hem...

This morning I was driving into Beans and Brews to get my occasional morning treat - a Grande White Mocha Latte, with one shot of espresso, Caramel Sauce and Hazelnut. That, my friends, should indicate how far I have fallen off the Church bandwagon... I am drinking coffee. Whatever...

A commercial came on singing claims to the newly-released book Broken Things to Mend by Jeffrey R. Holland, a member of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Immediately after the commercial began, I felt my hackles rise. I felt angry. The tone of the entire commercial is: YOU ARE BROKEN. FIX IT. NOW. It talked about how the world is falling apart, the economy is tanking and everyone and everything is, pretty much, going to hell in a hand basket. (I've always wondered about that cliche'. Why would we go in a hand basket??? What is a hand basket?)

At any rate, as the commercial continued on, the feeling of it - for me - focused on people being incomplete and broken, imperfect and in need of repair. It felt heavily weighted to the side of repentence and perfection to the point of impossibility. It triggered every "need to be perfect" program that I have ever had in me all at the same time.

There is an element of perfection within that religion that grates on my nerves like nothing else. They continually talk about attaining a level of perfection that is an impossibility for the majority of the human race which leads to continual dissatisfaction, guilt and shame.

I believe in Christ. I believe in the healing power of Christ. No, let's rephrase that. I know of the healing power of Christ. However, I also know that healing must come from within and that it must germinate from a seed of knowledge that the person is, indeed, whole and perfect from the start. Focusing on being "broken and needing to be mended" perpetuates the energy of "broken and needing to be mended". It does not heal. It will never heal anyone. Because, what you focus on grows.

This rant is going nowhere, I know. It is simply me releasing my ongoing frustration with the religion in which I was raised. I watch beautiful, amazing people around me driving themselves into the ground in an endless striving for perfection never knowing that, all along, they are already perfect. I feel angry that this church that preaches love also preaches striving for virtually unattainable perfection which results in endless frustration and fear.

Being outside the church, now, I see more and more how their focus is directed toward fear while preaching love. I feel angry that I spent the first 37 years of my life in that fear and shame for never being nearly perfect enough with no hope of ever arriving.

Waxing Religious

The father of one of my bestest friends was recently diagnosed with cancer far advanced in the fourth stage. He died peacefully a few days ago and today was his funeral. My friend is one of the most amazing people I know, who exhibits genuine kindness and love. He was born and raised in a Mormon household but has since departed the church. He and I have talked occasionally about our feelings about the church and usually, even though he is a gay man, he has had very little to say negatively about the religion's views. I have always known my friend to be a gentle soul who is true to himself.

In the last two months, I have attended two funerals, both of which have been Mormon funerals. It is the only time I have been back inside a Mormon church building. As I was also born and raised Mormon and the majority of my society were in the same boat, there was only one funeral I attended that was not a Mormon funeral. That service was warm and full of anecdotes about the person whom we were there to remember. It was such a stark contrast to what I was accustomed to.

Lately, with these last two funerals, I have become achingly aware of the insidious nature of Mormon funerals. Each time, I have walked away feeling empty and drained from the experience. Today, it is laced with anger. My friend spoke in honor of his father and also played a most beautiful piano piece which he had written just for him. Being no longer Mormon, his talk was heartfelt and sincere, devoid of any of the preaching that followed.

I feel angry that the church views a person's funeral as a moment to educate and, possibly, convert a captive audience. I was there to support my friend (as I was at the other funeral I recently attended). I had no desire to hear about the Plan of Salvation or the Three Tiers of the Kingdom of Heaven or that only those who have been Sealed will be one of the fortunate couples who receive exhaltation in the highest level of the highest kingdom. I don't care. I am not there for a Sunday school lesson. I am imagining that others who are also not Mormon don't care much either. And those who are Mormon have already heard the entire song and dance a gazillion times before, so they probably know it by rote and don't care much either. This person's funeral is just not the appropriate place to be waxing religious.

I have experienced these last two funerals, afterwards, in about the same light as I experienced Amway meetings or any other MLM meeting I have attended - and I have attended a lot of those. I realized today, as I drove away, that the reason Utah is the MLM capital of the nation is because there are so many Mormon's here and they are used to this insidious behavior. Hey, I have this great opportunity for you... that could be followed by two men in ties and white shirts with short haircuts knocking upon your door and holding up a Book of Mormon for you, or it could also be easily followed by two men in ties and white shirts, maybe with short haircuts, standing in front of you with a white board drawing circles and talking about how a rut is simply a grave with the ends knocked out. (For those of you that don't get that, don't bother. For those of you who do, I wanna know if you ever said the words "I'm goin' Diamond!" or "I'm all fired up!")

Funerals, in general, are not the most pleasant of things. Perhaps wakes are, but I wouldn't know because the society of my origin did not believe in that. Today, though, was especially aggravating for me. This funeral could have stopped after my friend's tribute. It made sense to that point. It was about the person we were there to remember. Following his beautiful piano piece, in my humble opinion, we all went to hell in a hand basket via the Celestial Kingdom.

The Power of Words

There is great power in the words that tell a group of people they are one thing or another. Like, for instance, the terminology "drunken indian." I imagine there are countless people of Native American heritage who loathe that stereotype. And I am generally not one to use derogatory terminology such as that. I am, however, inclined to believe that the person who first started that title had breezed by the Indian walk-in center here in Salt Lake. I drive by it each day on my way to the office. Each morning, there are teetering Native Americans weaving about drunkenly while waiting for the center to open so they can receive free health care. At any time of the day, I see this scene, no matter how early I pass there. There is something so sad about a system that continues to deal out free stuff to people who abuse it. I realize that all the free systems for the Native Americans were originally started out of guilt by the assholes who raided their land, stole from them and booted them into specific, lined out areas "for their own good." All in the name of the unification and progress of the good ole US of A. Still, it's sad.

I have avoided talking about this next topic because I get all lathered up and in a dither whenever it comes into any conversation in which I am participating. Today, though, I am bubbling over with thoughts about what is happening with the FLDS sect down in Texas. There are any number of stories for one to read on the internet regarding the corruption that has taken place within that compound. The USofA, somewhere along the way, decided that their way of life - polygamy - was illegal. Making their religious practices illegal has forced them underground and behind sealed walls wherein the air is becoming stale and corruption has insidiously seeped through into their very cells. Because their way of life is illegal, I imagine it is very difficult to recruit new blood, to bring others inside from the outside world. For me, their way of life looks anything but appealing, but there may be some that would choose to join, if it wasn't illegal.

I have a theory that when anything is stipulated as being illegal, it forces those who practice it - be it drugs or weird religions - to go underground to continue to live as they believe. This "going underground" is what brings in the perversion, the corruption, the evilness. The mere suggestion that the behavior is "wrong" by terming it illegal, creates the very wrongness and corruption that goes along with all things deemed illegal.

Thing is, in all races, religions, financial classes, educational castes and nations, there is child abuse, domestic violence, rape and murder. Everywhere we turn these days, unfortunately, we see humanity behaving inhumanely to one another, seeking to destroy one another and dominate one another. Our very country is involved in two wars in an attempt to stop the terror in those countries. It is everywhere, even here in the Land of Zion.

But, because the FLDS are a mysterious people, because they are seen as backwards thinking and "weird" and "wrong," their entire lives in Texas are being exploded with state "assistance." The children - who are innocent for godssake - have been taken away from the only life they have ever known. Near to 500 children are now homeless and thrown into a system of foster care. A system that, unfortunately, we all know to be largely untrustworthy and unsafe. They are taking them out into a world they do not understand and have been taught to fear and are placing them in the homes of strangers.

Now, the strangers (I am going to give them all the benefit of the doubt here) are volunteering to help out of the goodness of their hearts. However, this is not only scary for the FLDS children, but for the foster families as well. The FLDS children have come from a highly exclusive life that has secluded them from the ways of the world; they dress like pioneers from the 1800's; they don't know television or radio or XBox; they eat differently. The foster families are being asked to conform to the way of the FLDS children to ease their transition into the real world, to allow the children to continue to dress that way, to not use their televisions and other media devices. Several FLDS children are now in the hospital for malnutrition because they cannot/will not eat the food the foster families are giving them. These children have been cast out of their safe life into the scary world beyond their compound and have been irrevocably damaged and irreparably scarred. I cannot imagine their fears and the wondering of "what did *I* do wrong to do deserve this punishment?" And why, in the name of all is holy, WHY?! is it the children that are suffering? STILL?! They are the victims of this whole fiasco. They were before and now the state is perpetrating further damage. What in the hell is Texas thinking???!

(I am not even going to mention how I feel about what is happening for the mothers of all of these children because we will be here all day.)

In every group there are "bad" people, there are people who abuse others. In every religion there are those who go to the far extremes. Like every group of people and religion, there are abusers in the FLDS religion. I would venture to guess that there are also very gentle men in that group and that the number of gentle men greatly outnumbers the wicked. I imagine that, truth be known, the abuse was no greater than the abuse perpetrated within the Mormon religion or the Catholic religion or any other religion for that matter.

But because these people are "strange" they are a target for the nation. Humanity fears anything it does not understand. The FLDS religion is seemingly very secretive, which is an excellent reason to fear them. When a mob of people succumb to fear thinking, they do not think rationally nor humanely. They only think: destroy. Look at Hitler. Look at the Salem Witch Trials. Look at the Spanish Inquisition. They succumb to the very behaviors - or worse - of those people whom they accuse and condemn.

Can you imagine the Mormon temples being raided such as the FLDS temple was raided? (First off, the Mormon church has enough money and legal finesse that the authorities would never get near those doors, so that may be a moot pondering.) How about a Jewish synagogue? I know that the authorities say they found enough evidence to warrant the raid. Could they have misunderstood the evidence?

I don't begin to profess that I understand anything about the FLDS religion or way of life. I will not be the first to condemn or praise them. I do not have enough understanding to say one way or another that they are good or evil, nor do I feel it is my place to do so. I feel angry that this religion, however, has lost its right to practice as they believe. The nation that was set upon the creed of "freedom of religion" has single-handedly shut down a religion, an entire way of life. How is that right? Where are the people to stand up for the rights of the FLDS? What has happened to their constitutional rights???!

The authorities say that their religious practice of polygamy is illegal. Why? Why is it illegal???! Why does anyone care who anyone else is married to and how many times? Why does it matter if one man has more than one wife or one woman with more than one husband? Why does the government care about that???! Why do people care if a man marries a man??? Why does that hurt them? Why does it hurt anyone? Why is it a problem?!! I just don't understand. I don't understand how it is wrong to have more than one wife (or same same-sex marriage). If you only want one wife and he wants eight, how does that effect you, how does it hurt you???! I get that religions believe that marriage means one woman, one man. I get that! But why, if other people believe differently, why is it okay to make that belief wrong???!

I truly feel angry that groups of people can deem other groups of people to be "wrong." I feel angry that nations can deem other nations "wrong." I feel angry that one religion can frown upon another as being less than and "wrong." And all of that is acceptable, celebrated. What is happening to our world? What is happening that someone can look at another's "strange" life and declare it unfit? These modern day witch hunts will prove to be no more productive than the ancient witch hunts. It only pushes them underground to thrive in darkness until they rise again, more powerful and possibly more corrupt. Come ON, people!

Aliveness

There is nothing like a funeral to contrast the aliveness I feel in my life. In supporting my friend, JulieAnn, yesterday by attending her mother's funeral, I realized that funerals are just not my thing. More clearly... church funerals. Having been raised in the same religion she was raised in - and us both having left the religion - I had never known how laborious a religious funeral could be, until yesterday even though her brothers were all very gracious in their eulogies and went sparingly into indoctrination. The one thing I have never understood - and understand it even less now - is that Mormon funerals turn into a time to preach at the pulpit. I have never understood how celebrating one human's life is an opportunity to read scriptures and teach a Gospel Doctrine lesson.

I was appreciating her youngest brother's ability to lovingly open the services with a talk, not of all things Church related, but rather, of his love for his mother and the amazing woman that she was. His talk was gentle and absent of the overwhelming, over-pervasive talk of religion that I have heard in so many other church funerals. And he ended his moment at the pulpit with "Thank you," instead of "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." I am imagining that this brother is the brother who is non-religious. The other brothers, however, touched upon the Church teachings, gaining in intensity and length the older they got and I found myself wondering, "Why? Why does this need to be a lesson?"

I did not know JulieAnn's mother. I had never even met her. However, I felt that I knew little pieces of her, the tender memories and the laughter that she brought into everyone's world. I found myself crying silent tears when the grandchildren got up to sing. They opened with one of the very songs we sang at my Grandma's funeral who happened to die on April 3, 2003, exactly five years to the day of JulieAnn's mother's death. For a moment, it was my Grandma in the casket and I was sad all over again, missing her.

Funerals are a strange thing. Especially Mormon funerals. I get that it is supposed to help the living to say goodbye. Couldn't it be more uplifting, though? Couldn't it be a celebration of who the deceased was? Couldn't it be a time of only celebrating them, rather than some sort of religious agenda?

I think, when it is my time to go, I am going to invite the living to revel in my life. I am going to have there be drums and dancing. I am going to invite them to move and laugh and cry. Because, I believe, that is what I will be doing on the other side.

Cocoa Coffee

I am drinking hot chocolate laced with a splash of french vanilla capuccino. I love me some hot chocolate. I love me the smell of coffee, but can only drink that crap if it is lost in a sea of chocolate. I love it that way.

Coffee is a happy memory of mine linked to my younger, gentler days when I would beg my parents to allow me to spend the night at Grandma Faye's and Grandpa Vic's house. In the morning, I would wake up to the sounds of the birds busy in the trees, someone mowing their lawn in the distance, the flowing sight of the curtains floating on the breeze coming through the slightly-opened window and the smell of coffee and bacon. Grandma was a full-blooded English Mormon Good Girl married to a full-blooded Italian Catholic Bad Boy who loved himself some coffee every morning with his eggs and bacon.

Grandpa was in the hospital room when Grandma died on April 3, 2003, after her fifth open heart surgery. It was a traumatic death scene, complete with spraying blood and cries of agony. In that moment, Grandpa became frozen, staring at the blood splatters on the floor and slowly began his slide away from life. On that day, I lost both my grandparents, although Grandpa still breathes and walks today. He breathes, but has no idea who I am, where he is or who Faye was. He still believes, after four years, that he is on vacation in Texas after being whisked away from his home of fifty-five years. His home, his possessions and his belongings that he worked so hard for his entire life have been sold out from underneath him by his sons and he has no idea. His entire life is as if it never was.

While he still lived at home here in Salt Lake, my uncles and their wives would visit him dutifully. For quite some time there was huge strife in the family because the local siblings - the sisters - were unable to physically, emotionally and mentally support their father as much as the brothers felt they should be. Neighbors began calling saying they were frightened that Grandpa was going to hurt himself or someone else with how crazy he was driving. They were frightened he would be hurt or lost on his meandering walks in the middle of the night which led him all over the city, collecting garbage from the gutters that he believed were artistic treasures and began adorning the walls of his kitchen. They were frightened by his sudden appearance at their windows as he peered inside, surely looking for the home that was his but seemed to be lost now. Things slowly got so sad.

One uncle left a list of things to do taped to the kitchen cupboard before he left. A list of daily reminders because Grandpa was beginning to have difficulties remembering the simplest things:

1. Take a shower.
2. Sleep in the bed.
3. Put on clean underwear each day.
4. Put clothes in the hamper each night.
5. Clean your teeth and put them in every day.
6. Eat fruit each day.
7. Drink no coffee or beer.
8. Brush your hair.
9. Call one family member each day. The numbers are by the phone in the closet.
10. Say your prayers.

I was offended when I saw the list. Especially, as you can probably guess, by numbers seven and ten. Beer and coffee were loves of my Grandpa and I don't ever remember my grandfather praying. I asked him what he thought of the list and he snickered, "Aw, that list? It helps him feel better."

Even when he was losing his mind, Grandpa never lost his sense of humor or irony. Another time, while he was visiting here, our family met at a Vietnamese restaurant for Pho (Vietnamese soup, pronounced Fu, like Fuck) I had never had Pho before, nor had most of my family. My uncle thought it would be cool to introduce us to something new. Grandpa sat beside me, swirling his soup around and staring at the odd-looking concoction, eating carefully only that which he could recognize. The entire time he sat there silent, staring at that soup and I could feel him giggling inside. He had an odd smirk on his face and a glimmer in his eye when I glanced at him.

I leaned toward him, lowering my voice and suspecting his answer, "Grampa... you like the soup?"

He grimaced and whispered, "Not really. It's weird. But I will eat it like a good boy."

[funny sidenote on the name of this soup. The aunt and uncle who invited us all there are some of the most prim, proper Mormons I have ever met. I don't think I have ever heard either of them say so much as "Dang it" let alone anything tough like "Damn." My aunt, who is the most prim of the two, kept saying "Pho" with such relish that I glanced at her every time. She said it almost too frequently, with such passion and as if it was the coolest word she had ever heard. After hearing her use the word with such excitement four separate times in, seemingly, a matter of 30 seconds, I said, "Ya know, Auntie, that is sounding sorta nasty." Her eyes grew wide and she asked with a gasp, "Nasty?! What sounds nasty?" I was perversely enjoying the razzing I was giving her and knew she would be mortified when the meaning of what I was implying sank in to her demurely thick skull. "The way you say 'Pho' makes it sound more like a swear word." She repeated the word one more time to figure it out. I raised my eyebrows and waited for the realization to sink in. The blush began creeping up her neck as she started dishing the Pho to her grandson. From that point on, it became "fff-*blush*-SOUP!"]

When Grandma died, my uncles - who both served their missions in Italy - swept in and began, in earnest, the conversion of my Grandfather who swore in his sanity that he would never convert to Mormonism, even though he was more knowledgeable about the religion than pretty much any Mormon I knew. For all of their lives he had been, in no uncertain terms, emphatic that he would never be Mormon. While I understand and respect their point of view, I feel angry that they did not honor his beliefs at a time when they should have most honored them. I feel angry that they played on his emotions in his dwindling mental state. He told me once in a moment when he remembered who Faye was, "I want to see my Honey Girl again. They told me the only way I could do that was to get baptized. It's what she would have wanted. So I did it."

They did it without inviting us in Salt Lake - those who they knew opposed the coercive nature of their conversion process. All we got was a note in the mail from Texas with a picture of Grandpa in his white baptism jumpsuit standing in front of the church building. The look on his face was distant and detached. He had no idea, I believe, about what was going on in that moment or what it really meant to be baptized. Something in my Grandfather's stubborn Italian way, though, holds him back from finalizing the entire process and going through the Temple.

Knowing what was in his heart and hoping that it had not been completely taken away from him, I asked him the last time he was here in Utah, "Grampa, ya gonna go through the Temple?"

His answer: "HELL NO!" He grinned at me and I laughed. He has no idea who he is. He has no idea who I am. He has no idea where he is and yet, part of him still knows he is a proud Italian Catholic man depsite the fact he has been dipped in the waters of Mormonism.

Heathens in the Basement

I must admit... it seems that I have listened to General Conference more since I left the Church than I did while I was an active member. As an active member, it was all I could do to fit it in. Back then, I viewed General Conference as a much welcomed respite from the constant "do do DO" of the religion and I would begrudgingly set aside the entire weekend, twice a year, to somehow find myself planted in front of the television to partake of the wisdom and Word of God. Once or twice, I got very lucky - usually when visited by members from out of town - to be able to attend Conference at the Tabernacle (back when the Church still held Conference there.) I would dutifully take notes - moreso to stay awake - and would hope to absorb the "thing" that I was searching for to fill the space within me that always seemed empty.

After 32 years - one year after going through the Temple on my own - I realized that that "thing" was never going to show up and I, finally, stopped trying.

Now, being an ex-member and it no longer being a commandment to listen, I am able to listen freely. Now that I choose for myself to watch/listen - instead of being told I must - I am able to hear the messages. Granted, I take it in very small, controlled doses, but every now and then throughout the weekend, I turn it on and listen.

Today, being Sunday of General Conference weekend, the sounds of Conference are filling the living room. My father and his wife seem to be soaking it in and loving it. I feel happy for them because they seem to know that their life is this religion. I have never really been able to understand having a religion - any religion, not just Mormonism - as one person's whole life. However, my father has always lived, breathed, ate and walked Mormonism. It is his passion. He loves it and you can see it in him when he talks about it. As I child, I always wanted that for myself. That seemingly undying love, passion and devotion that he displayed for his religion, I wanted to feel that for the Church, too. So I relied on him to give it to me for a long time, then I strived to find it for myself for a long time. I just never landed in it and realized that something that should have been innate, just wasn't for me. It wasn't a fit. Later on in life, I realized that, even more importantly than wanting that love he displayed for the Church to be something I could feel for the Church, I wanted that love he displayed for the Church to be something he displayed for me. Long ago, I made the decision that my father loves his Church far beyond the depths of his love for me. Be that true or false, I do not know, I only know that is a long-ago formed notion that still runs in my veins.

At any rate, today is Sunday and Conference is on. The morning session began just as I got in my car to go to an appointment. I had a half-hour drive to listen to the ultra-masculine voices of the newly-appointed General Authorities and found myself musing about the possiblity that they choose the Authorities by the sound of their voices. They all sound the same to me. They always have. I wondered as I neared the home of my friends if they would be listening to Conference too, being as they are both also officially disassociated with the Church. Indeed, loud and clear on their fairly large television, there it was. General Conference.

He and I had an interesting discussion about the Conference talks and we watched a few minutes together. I noticed the common hand gestures he had mentioned, although I had never taken note of them before. I listened to the perculiar pauses and intonation of the speakers languaging, picking up on the subtle nuances I had never noticed before. I felt myself being lulled, since I was no longer having to be alert enough to drive. I realized in that moment that there was a lot happening that was purposeful - all geared toward getting me to hear exactly what they wanted me to hear.

I felt uncomfortable with the feeling of being pressed upon.

Then we ventured downstairs, closing the basement door behind us. He and I commented about shutting out the truth and walking down the steps to hell. We laughed and I was aware that my old programming was kicking into high gear - it was bad to joke about something such as that, that I definitely was going to hell and my mere presence there (and with what we had planned for today's activities) was truly enough to get me permanently kicked out of heaven.

The sounds of the Tabernacle Choir wafted beneath the door and down the stairs to where I sat, shuffling the Tarot cards he was about to read for me. I spread them on the table, feeling my Reiki energy kick on high - higher than the programs, bright and clear and protective as I looked at the brilliant blue backs of the Voyager deck before me. I slowly scanned the deck with my left hand, searching for the cards that he and I would work with. I became intensely conscious of the dichotomy of the situation. I felt naughty for playing with "cards" - these specific cards, Tarot cards, witchcraft.

"This is hard," I muttered. "With that music behind me, filling my ears and my body here, choosing cards. I feel really torn between what was and what is."

I could hear him thinking, "It is exactly as it is supposed to be." All he did was grin at me. He knew that I knew.

And there, in the basement, we uncovered the missing piece of me that I have been searching for my whole life. The part that I hoped would come from the one place that I had been taught everything came from - The Church - yet, it never did. In our own way, using the Divine Gifts he and I have been blessed with - the very gifts we had both been damned and excluded for within the religion - we found Me and brought me back together again. He helped me bring to light that part of me that was lost, yet still within me, and screaming to be found for most of my life. We unearthed my "what do I do next" and I left feeling more peaceful, more complete, more heard and more understood than I have ever felt.

I decided on the way home that I will take my hedonistic, heathen ways over the conformity any day now.

Thoughtful

It is Sunday. I am at the kitchen table, wondering what to do next. I feel tired and want to go back to bed, yet I don't. I look out the windows and see the snow softly floating down and don't know whether to be ironically amused or ticked off. Today, I had wanted to plant pansies at my office to make that space more inviting. I wanted to be able to pull up in front of the office and feel happy first thing, rather than looking at the dead grass, the weeds and all the cigarette butts and shattered beer bottles. The area in which my office is located is not the happiest place on earth - surrounded by a hip-happening Irish bar, a not-so-exciting CPA, an underground gambling ring, an Asian market and a drug testing facility. It's an odd combination of humanity those locales draw. Most of them are indifferent to honoring another's space.

However, it is snowing. No planting of pansies today.

And, as I sit here, thinking about yesterday's post I am listening to Sounds of the Sabbath which is bouncing reverently around the living room. One of my all time favorite hymns fills the air...

Where Can I Turn for Peace?
(Hymn #129)
Where can I turn for peace?
Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart,
Seaching my soul?
Where, when my aching grows,
Where, when I languish,
Where, in my need to know, where can I run?
Where is the quiet hand, to calm my anguish?
Who, who can understand?
He, only One.
He answers privately,
Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant He is and kind,
Love without end.

As I child, I was taught that God was outside of me and love came to me, from outside of me. Those most cherished "things" were way far outside of me, sometimes even "up there" and that, somehow, I was supposed to "do" something to earn them both. There was a juxtaposed belief that it was my divine right to have both, yet, I had to "be" good to do so. It was conditional.

Now, as an adult and far removed from the religion of my upbringing, I am trying to find my own truths, rather than ride into heaven on my dad's coattails. I am confused. The messages coming to me frequently are, "You just gotta love yourself, Ang. The love comes from the inside."

I have no frame of reference for this way of thinking. It is so foreign to me. Love has always been something that has come at me and, when it came from me it went to someone else, someone outside of me. In ALC, the facilitators have a little hand gesture they do to show what they mean - they point outward and then slowly sweep their pointing finger inward toward their chest to signify "bring it inward." I see the move. I do the move. I just don't understand what it means.

Where do I turn for peace? I no longer know. I feel like I am wandering in a desert. Alone. Without a tribe. I feel very alien in this world... and am achingly aware that this aloneness is creating more aloneness. I long to connect, yet the message is I need to do that for myself first. If I want to connect with others, yet I have to do it for myself first and that doing it for myself first is an absolutely foreign concept which I do not understand... well, then... what the hell? I feel trapped in this desert, destined to wander alone because I don't know how to love myself first.

TT - "Sisterhood"

It's Saturday. I am finally addressing the Talk Thursday topic, Sisterhood "assigned" by Cele.

When the assignment came down the wire, I was decidedly pissy about it and said as much to Cele. I felt so UNsisterish at the time. I still do. I was startled when I felt my hair bristle on end when I read the topic. I was even more taken aback when I realized that I had no idea what "sisterhood" really means.

Sisterhood, for me, has some conotations with which I am highly uncomfortable, stemming back to my religious days. In The Church, men are "Brothers (Elders, Brethren)" and the women are "Sisters." Nobody has a first name. For a long time, I thought that every adult's first name was that and that somewhere along the way there was some sort of stripping of the unique first name and everyone became generic Brother or Sister.

Also, I am of the belief that women, in general, do not play well together. My life experiences have supported this, unfortunately, more often than not. I have very few "real life" female friends because, plain and simple, I don't trust them. I have experienced women throughout my life as being petty and bitchy and willing to do just about anything behind my back. Women have proven to me time and again that they are not here to support me, but rather to tear my hair out strand by strand, douse me with gasoline and set me on fire.

Nowadays, I am still very limited in the number of close friends whom I allow to really begin to know me. And, honestly, I think I still am guarded enough that there is no one single person that really knows who I am. In that limited number of close friends, there is one woman. She is someone who has known me since I was 11 and, even with her, I keep her at a distance.

In the one relationship where the terminology "sisterhood" should most directly apply - with my sister - I am unclear. My sister is five years younger than me. When she was born, all I could think in my five year old brain was that there had to be something much more special about her than there was about me. That was the only way I could figure out why she was seemingly more important than me. That feeling has carried on throughout my life - this sense that I am less than my baby sister. She's a college graduate. I am not. She's married with two children. I am divorced with one. She has her own home. I am living in a petite guest room. She is near to debt-free. I am drowning in debt. She is running her own highly successful business, bringing in five figures in some months. I am struggling to stay afloat. This less-ness is purely self-imposed and, frankly, insanity. I am just so different from my sister.

All of my life I have had this part of me that seemed to be missing. A hole. I have sought to fill it with stuff that didn't fit. Men. Food. Knowledge. What I mistakenly thought was love. In the end, I was (am) still left wanting, aching and wishing for this Norman Rockwell painting of a life where my Sisters gather around me and hold me up. Where they are beside me, cheering me on and wanting me to succeed. Where the women of my world want me in their presence and are women who I want in my life.

I have this sense that, as I journey ever further into the depths of the power of Me, I am growing farther away from the possibility that I will be a part of a Sisterhood. I feel a desperation of aloneness that calls to me from the darkness. A sense that, as I grow in my divine power, I become less able to blend with the humans, I become more alien. I feel scared that I am to find myself forever in a life wherein I am alone, without a pack or a tribe and without a partner.

And then I feel sad.

Yeah... Sisterhood... what is it, anyway?

Clarification

Tonight, when I arrived home, dad and his wife were in the kitchen. The house smelled delumptious and I was grateful for that because I was ravenous to the point that all I could think was, "I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I'm hungry."

Dad kindly and lovingly said, "I'd like to talk to you about your..."

His wife finished, "Blog post."

I suspected they were referring to Marching Morons but held my tongue and waited.

"The one about your cousin's daughter's blessing," dad offered.

Ugh. It was the Marching Morons post. Damn.

He smiled and paused. I imagine there was some sort of internal battle going on for him, considering that post did not put his religion in a very good light. And the person who wrote it was his very own daughter. I imagine there was some sadness and maybe even anger in there. If the roles were reversed, how would I handle it? Would I even address it?

"Where you called ceremonies rituals."

Definitely Marching Morons. Crap.

I nodded.

"I'd like to answer some questions you had and clear up some falsehoods. "

Ugh. Not sure I want to be in this conversation. Breathe, Angie. Just breathe.

"I didn't really have any questions, Dad."

"Well," pause, "Okay. About the circle. The father is able to be inside, in the center of the circle holding the child if he wants. He just isn't able to form the circle with the Elders."

"Well, he was told he wasn't allowed to be a part of the blessing process."

"He should have been able to."

"Well, he wasn't."

That topic finalized, we moved on to the next... "The Elders put their hands under the baby and bounce the baby to comfort the child, not because it is protocol. Also, the reason the Elders put their hands on one another's shoulders is to form an eternal circle of Priesthood power."

"I figured as much. And that makes sense. I know the significance of circles and the symbology of eternity in them. I know about the strength of linking up to form a continuous circle of power. I have done it in some of the healing groups I have participated in."

Next... "You had mentioned that you thought the religion was a cult."

Shit. Not exactly that, but I can see how he thought that it said that.

"Actually, what I said, Dad, was that it was now easy to see why someone who does not understand the religion could see it as a cult. Especially anyone who has had any experience with witchcraft and occult rituals, all of which circle up in much the same manner. I didn't say it was a cult. I said it was easy to understand how others could view it as such now."

The conversation in the kitchen was fairly level headed. Dad looked me right in the eye and we talked adult to adult. His wife, though, kept silent and seemed to vibrate in her corner. I don't think she was happy. But she didn't say. She mentioned that she didn't feel good, so perhaps that was the reason for her silence. I don't know. It felt like more than that.

At the end of the conversation, Dad said, "And you said some other stuff at the end, which I am not going to address and just let you think about it."

My daughter chimed in, "Momma, what did you write?"

Knowing what the end of the article says, I felt trapped. It wasn't something I wanted to verbalize in front of them because it felt disrespectful of their beliefs. Yet, I have always told my daughter she would get the absolute truth from me, no matter what she asks. Cornered and a bit angry, I said to my daughter with a gentle smile to reassure her that it wasn't her I was angry with, "I will gladly talk with you about it. However, out of respect for your grandparents, I will not talk about it in their presence."

She nodded and let it go.

Now, three hours later, I sit here writing this and wondering... my family is getting ruffled by my words so do I begin to censor what I write here? This is my processing place. I have a commitment to my truths and the expression of them. I feel sad that I have bothered them and my brother (evidence of that in the comments of Left Out) with stuff I have written. Then I sit back and I look at the computer screen. This is my blog, which I have deemed to be my journal. I write out my heart, my dreams, my hopes, my fears, my anger, my love and whatever else hits my fancy. Whether right, wrong, good, bad or indifferent, it is what it is.

And, I just decided... it is what it is and as it is, it is! And that is how it will remain.

TT "Marching Morons"

First, I must out myself... When Cele suggested this week's Talk Thursday topic, I snorted and chortled because I read it as "Marching Mormons." I instantly went into fits of giggles as I imagined myself bitching writing about my up close and personal experiences in the land of Mormonism - both my own personal stories as a Mormon, as well as what I have experienced with Mormons. After I wiped my tears and while in the middle of my reply back to C, I realized that the word was morons not Mormons and then I laughed right out loud, doubled over with the hilarity of it all. I am still chuckling about that Freudian slip.

However, once I had realized what the word really was, I drew a total blank. I was curious about my programing that instantly turned on... that is bad to call people morons... it's not nice to talk bad about others behind their backs... do unto others as I would have done unto me... if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all. And so on.

Then I realized something. A great big, "slap my forehead cuz I could have had a V8" sort of big something. I believe whole-heartedly in the power of the Freudian slip. I know from my work that when a client slips like that (i.e., using the word "flogged" instead of "flawed") that there is huge stuff buried beneath the slip. Therefore, given that, I chose to delve under my slip to see what I could find. It's not pretty...

I was born and raised a Mormon, a full-blooded and completely sanctified and endowed member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I retained that status - sometimes barely by a thread because I have a tendency to thwart authority and rules and I really like sex - until just a few years ago. While I was a member, the strangeness and seeming cultishness (that should be a word) of my religion did not actually strike me as either strange or cultish, although people all around the word have a deep-seated (seeded?) fear of that religion.

I really thought that when I asked to have my name removed from the records of the Church that I would not see any difference in the Church. I thought that my eyes were opened within the Church. I thought that the burning in my bosom and all that schnazzy stuff that good Mormons are supposed to feel was not felt by me because I just wasn't a good enough Mormon. I thought that my formal divorcing of all that I had been taught to believe but never really felt would somehow release me and I would see the Church as only good.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

This past Sunday night, I had the opportunity to attend the blessing of my cousin's first daughter. Traditionally, in the LDS Church, babies are blessed on the first Sunday following their emergence into this world. It is quite ritualistic, in a Mormon sort of way, this blessing of the newborn child. The LDS religion states that children are born into this world pure and free of sin, unlike some religions which teach that children are born in sin. Therefore, the purpose of the blessing is not to cast out demons or purify this newborn's soul. This blessing is for one purpose only. I believe the words are: "The name which she shall be known on the records of the Church..."

I have done a little research regarding the blessing of infants and where the ritual started. According to an Ensign article I found on www.lds.org:

"In the ordinance of blessing infants, however, especially in giving the child a name, we are counseled, as seen above, to address our Heavenly Father, perhaps because, among other reasons, the infant does not understand our speaking directly to him. Still addressing the Lord, priesthood bearers are authorized to give a name to the infant rather than merely to ask that a name be given (“We give this infant the name of …”).

Similarly, in the blessing part of the ordinance, it seems to me that Melchizedek Priesthood bearers are authorized by the Lord not merely to pray for blessings, but to pronounce or give blessings directly as the Spirit suggests. This procedure is consistent not only with the instructions in the Melchizedek Priesthood Handbook, but also with D&C 20:70:

“Every member of the Church of Christ having children is to bring them unto the elders before the church, who are to lay their hands upon them in the name of Jesus Christ and bless them in his name” (italics added).

There are a few points that, while reading this particular article, I felt my hackles raise. Like, for instance, the statement that the "infant does not understand our speaking directly to him" and, of course, the scripture from D&C. Why? Why must every child be brought to the elders before the church? (in rereading that scripture, I stumbled along the "Church of Christ" part and wondered, suddenly, when the name of the Church had been changed?!?!) There are so many why's in the Church that I never have had answered. Each one built on the last until I was a huge mess of unanswerable questions.

However... I digress...

I went to this blessing on Sunday. My cousin opted to host it at her small house, rather than in Fast & Testimony meeting on Sunday at the chapel. I am not sure of her reasoning behind that, but it was her choice. The interesting thing is... for her to do that, she had to receive permission from her Bishop and there had to be an "authority" from the Church who presided over the event. There were two of them that I noticed. Two Suits, standing stoically beside the entrance, feet spread hip width apart and planted firmly on the ground, heads in the Celestial Kingdom, hands appropriately crossed in front of their crotches - that typical "I am important" sort of stance that authorities and cops and such take on.

I was startled to feel the heaviness of the room. It could have been that there were about fifty people crammed into the space that would have comfortably held only ten. It could have been because there were so many Suits in the place. It could have been that the Elders had congregated authoritatively in the corner, lording over the room and seemingly watching everyone's every move. It could have been, simply, that I just no longer believe.

The heaviness became oppressive as the Suits circled up in the center of the tiny living room. I actually leaned against the wall for protection as they shouldered through the crowd with this sort of intention that felt twisted to me. Suddenly, there they were, all twelve of them circled up in the center of the room as if they had been translated to that very space. Then I watched. They seemed to fall in a specific, secret order, with my cousin's brother being the focal point as he was the one who held the baby.

Now, about these blessings... only Melchizedek Priesthood holders in the office of Elder are allowed to stand in these circles. My cousin's husband was not in high enough standing so he is not allowed to lay his hands on his child to give her an official priesthood blessing, nor is he able to even be a part of the circle. (I remember the day very vividly when my high school boyfriend obtained the office of Elder and was able to stand in his first circle. I was able to witness that and stood there glowing with pride that I was in love with such a worthy(?) man.) Also, the Elder's in the circle must be worthy to stand in that circle. I glanced around the room, as I noticed several people doing, and took note of the few men that were standing outside of the circle. Since there were only three and I know them all, I know why they weren't in that circle. Another way to have obvious divisiveness within the Church.

Having never been this close to a Priesthood circle, I had never had the chance to really watch. And, of course, when I was a member, I had assumed the position of reverence as soon as the men had began gathering - eyes closed, head lowered, arms folded - so that I would be in the proper frame of mind for supporting the blessing.

They circled up in a clockwise fashion, each man slanting his left shoulder out of the circle, right shoulder in. They each placed their right hand under the baby, which was being gently bounced, causing the entire circle to pulse in a bouncing rhythm. From what my brother tells me, this bouncing is part of the protocol whether the infant is crying or not. Now, the curious part was, every one of the Elders I could see placed their left hand on the left shoulder or mid-shoulders of the Elder in front of them and then slid their hand to the proper place on the Elder's right shoulder. Every one of the Elders were very serious about making sure the proper protocol was followed.

In that moment, as I watched each of their hands slide into place, I shuddered with the realization that I was witnessing a ritual. This was not a ceremony. This was a ritual. And it was now easy to see why most of the modern world views the Mormons as a cult. There are many of these rituals which are performed, almost as if by rote. I felt scared, as I stood there, wide-eyed and really listened and felt was going on. I felt scared that, in that room, I felt a darkness. I felt scared that there was no light, no heaven-sent messengers or spirits. I felt scared that this Church was not true.

And then, I felt really scared that maybe I had fallen so far from grace that I could no longer feel the spirit. I had fallen so far that I am now condemning the Only True Church on the Face of the Earth. I was scared that I am maybe really going to Outer Darkness because I denounced the Church.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I had arrived right on time with my mom and as soon as the Elders said, "Amen," I was bolting around the fridge to kiss my cousin and aunt farewell. Mom waved from her stunned position at the door and was gone even before I was. I trembled in my car, scared that it was me that was evil. Scared that I was the reason that there was no lightness in the room. That I had brought evil into a space where there was supposed to be only good. I felt scared again that maybe it was only me that did not feel the spirit. Then Mom had shakily whispered that she had had a similar experience.

I have been so troubled by the feeling in that room. Since Sunday, I have wanted to write about it, but have felt afraid. I couldn't even talk about it until later Monday night. And then I was terrified because the only word that would come to mind to describe what I felt there was wicked. And then, this topic came up and everything from that night came rushing to the surface.

I am still unsettled about the whole scene. There was a moment when I felt something crawling up my spine, this uneasy and creeping sensation which settled at the base of my skull. I could not shake the feeling and, even now, if I look, it is still there and I shudder with the intensity of it. I feel a strong need to roll my head and shrug my shoulders to release it. And, yet, it does not go. There is something I am not yet getting and it will stay until I do.

I know this feeling. It is the feeling I get when I am intentionally ignoring myself. It is how I feel when I am endangering myself. It is how I feel when I have an intuitive nudge that I choose to stuff into the closet.

I feel scared about the implications of that feeling.

Yes!

(video added so you can download and have the actual song to which I refer later as the background music for your reading pleasure.)

It was 1988. I was an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, an active participator in the local Young Adults Ward and the Ward Physical Fitness Director. I had actually come up with the idea of combining singles mingling with singles moving. It was a kick ass dang good idea and the Young Adults (aged 18-30) all jumped on the bandwagon, leg-warmers, headbands and all.

I was excited to lead the aerobics class; dancing and aerobics being my passion back then. I was also excited to have my recently-returned missionary boyfriend of almost-three-years being front and center each and every night that I taught class. We met Mon, Wed, Fri at 6:00am for an hour and Tue and Thu evenings at 8:00pm for an hour. He was there every night, egging me on to shake my ass really get the class enthused and moving.

There were elaborately choreographed numbers where everyone got to learn the dance and we used them time after time so that even the most clumsiest of aerobicizers could get a grip. There were grand traveling numbers that got us bouncing around the entire carpeted gymnasium/basketball court/auditorium. Circle-up numbers where we did a Hokey-Pokey sort of performance. And lots of laughter.

For an hour each day, we bounced around that gym laughing and bumping into each other and getting our bodies moving. I led my friends through movements that got their heart rates up, their flirtation levels up and their eyes up. We interacted. We danced. We hopped. We jumped. We breathed.

I picked music that inspired me to move and bounce and laugh. Said boyfriend helped me mix and compile the most fucking totally awesome hour-long tape of music that would absolutely not allow anyone to stop moving. I picked one particular song, "Yes!" by Mary Clayton from the ever-popular-most-raved-about soundtrack of that time, Dirty Dancing. I didn't really listen to the words of the song (big mistake). All I knew was that that song got me bouncing about instantly.

So, one Thursday night, we were all revved up and dancing about the gymnasium as "Yes!" thundered out of the boombox behind me. Laughter was bouncing off the walls as much as we were. There was not a still body anywhere to be seen. Didn't matter how fat or skinny, how old or young, male or female, the entire room was packed with moving people. Boyfriend, front and center, was casting inviting grins my way and all was right with the world.

In walks three white-haired Suits looking all patriarchal and proper. When I felt the invasion, I glanced at them long enough to see that they stood at the entryway, each with one foot in and one foot out, jaws agape, faces white. They each wore looks of horror. I felt the stares of the Suits more than I saw them and I watched as, one by one, the jubiliant exercisers stopped moving. The high energy of the gym was sucked out of the space instantaneously.

The middle one, Stake President SoAndSo pointed dramatically to my best friend who happened to also be the Relief Society President of our ward. Then he pointed militarily at the hallway, his silent communications saying, "You! Get your ass to my office now." She moved timidly toward the door, following the Suits out the door. We all looked at each other, uncertain as to the problem and, yet, reluctant to begin bouncing about again. I suddenly became aware of the words of the chorus blasting through the air...

Yes!
We're gonna fall in love
And it feels so right
Yes!
We're gonna make love
It's gonna be tonight
I can just imagine
Huggin and teasin and
Lovin and squeezin all night

SHIT! Shoot.

I turned the music down thinking that maybe it had been just because I had it up louder than was proper for the church gymnasium, yet knowing it was the actual words that had bothered them. Especially that one certain line...

The sucking of our energy was plainly visible and I realized that I had lost the entire group. I felt deflated. The group unenthusiastically began moving again, their moves decidedly less happy and more constrained. Half-heartedly I finished out the rest of the session, so very grateful when the cool-down music started. I imagined I heard a sigh of relief sweep through the group.

Two days later I was called into the Young Adult Ward Bishop's office. Apparenlty, he had been called into the Stake President's office over the Thursday Night incident. Apparently, the music I had chosen was inappropriate. Apparently, I was being held responsible for the entire Young Adult Ward's moral behavior. Apparently, my choice of bouncy music was not at all appropriate, let alone in the church, and especially let alone broadcasting it to a group of impressionable young adults (again, aged 18-30).

I was admonished to be more thoughtful about what I allowed into my presence because music such as that would surely lead to my immoral fall from grace. (Little did he know I was well on my way there already, music or no.) Then, I was released from my position.

I still smile and bounce when I hear the song.

Cancelled?

I don't believe it. The news just flew around the house. The bishopric of my father's ward has called off church today. I have lived in Utah for all of my life (aside from a two year stint in Idaho Falls, which we call North Salt Lake) and never in my 39 years have they called off church due to bad weather.

So I went outside with my cell phone to take pictures and check out how bad it really was - actually, I didn't go outside, I just opened the front door and a snow drift a foot high fell inside. I was intrigued with how the snow had accumulated on everything, sticking out as lacy protrusions on all vertical surfaces. And the details of the world was lost in a flurry of grey-white.

Much to my daughter's delight and my horror, we will be inside today watching her favorite musical, Cats. I appreciate this show for it's costumes and make-up which is believably catish. I, however, think it is the stupidest storyline of all time. I just don't get it. I looked it up on wikipedia to give you that link and discovered that it is based on a collection of poems by T. S. Elliot. Hence the reason I don't get it. It's not really a story after all, but a collection of poems. And, it requires me to focus way too hard to understand what they are singing to even begin understanding what is happening. It's about cats, for godssake. However, I realize that it is a most cherished, award winning show. But, still, it's about cats. Thusly, it is ranked amongst my daughter's top favorite movies of all time. I think she was born a cat in another lifetime.

At any rate, (I had an English teacher in high school named Mrs. Hess. She wore purple all the time from head to toe. Her lipstick was even purple. Her earrings were always baubly purple balls. Her hair was a steel-wool mass of bottle-bought copper. Every single day she was dressed in every shade of purple and her favorite saying was, "At any rate," in her quaking, gravelly, smoked-for-too-long-voice. We would count her usage of the cliche. One day, in a 90-minute class, we counted 96 declarations, "At any rate...")

Sooooo... at any rate. Church has been cancelled today. Apparently a storm bigger and worse than the one hitting us right now is scheduled to pound into the valley around noon. For the safety of the members, they are being advised to stay home.

As for our worshipping today, Baby and I are watching Cats and dad and his wife are balancing their checkbook. Hmmmm...

Genetics

It's Saturday and I feel lazy. It's a beautiful day outside and I hear myself berating myself you should be up and at 'em, girl. However, I don't wanna. I want to stay inside and hibernate. I want to stay in my pajamas and watch television while cuddled under a blanket. Thing is, I want to do this with only my daughter in tow. Which is possible for the next few hours as dad and his wife have gone to The Funeral uptown. They are missionaries so they got special tickets which delighted the both of them. They will actually be sitting in the Conference Center with the big wigs. One of the perks of serving the Lord.

For me, though, I didn't have any desire to attend the funeral and have found myself surprised by the reaction of thousands of people who seem to be mourning the passing of their lifelong best friend. It is as if they have had a personal relationship with this man, every single one of them. Am I missing something? Am I missing some really important emotional gene that allows me to connect with the death of a prophet like that? It isn't just because I have left The Church that I do not have these feelings. These feelings of mourning the passing of a 97 year old man who lived a good and full life are just absent.

When I was 8 or so, I got to meet President Kimball. My dance troupe was performing for the General Authorities on the 26th floor of the Church Office Building, which was really an honor. Up close and personal with some of Utah's most famous "celebrities." After the performance, President Kimball approached me and my young dance partner. President Kimball complimented us on our performance and shook our hands. He was gentle and kind and smiled a huge smile that I still remember. I was star-struck and felt so connected to him in that moment. Still, when he died nine years later, I did not wail and moan and feel as though I had lost my best friend as it seems all these people are doing for Hinckley. So I wonder... is there some gene that I am strangely lacking?

Mr. Millionaire stated yesterday, "Angie, you just get it. You understand death as being a GOOD transition to a different place." Could that be it?

I don't know. All I know is I want to cuddle under my blankets and be lazy today. Oh. And maybe I will venture out to the house concert tonight of my friends Mary and Leraine. They are amazing musical genuises whom would be reason enough to come out from under the covers!

I've Been A-Thinkin'

So, I am wondering... when one is completely oblivious to the goings-on in the political arena, is it acceptable for one to vote completely Democratic simply because one's father is voting Republican because that's what all good members of his religion do? Now, he says he is not going to do that, as does his wife, but in the last week all I have heard either of them report on was which Republican one which State. And, usually, it's quite jovial news when it is Romney that took the State. And she says she will "never vote for Hillary" because she doesn't like her husband and what he did when he was President. Now, hey. Isn't that sorta judging someone else for the sins of another? Doesn't The Church teach that that isn't what they do?

Sadly enough, I have lost faith in our government and the way that it does its business. I no longer believe that any politician is actually going to stand behind that which he/she claims he/she will be doing during his/her term. I believe that the way our government was originally set up to run is no longer a viable way to run a country. It seems that our President has just become a celebrity spokesperson who poses and looks "pretty" for the camera, without really being able to do anything of worth because Congress, the Senate and the Lobbyists have the person in that position by the balls and backed into the corner. And then, when it appears that the President may be doing his own thinking, it is only because he seems to have lost his damn mind and is paying no heed to the citizens anymore and is going haywire over the edge and taking the whole country with him.

So, with all that being said, I am wondering... how do I vote for something I don't believe in? And, how can I not vote and continue to watch this country be destroyed? How can I hope that my vote will mean anything? Especially if I am going to vote for an underdog because then "others" view that as splitting the votes away and weakening the election...

I am wondering if McCain feels like a minority in the Big Four of this race. I mean, he cannot say he's black or Mormon or a woman. He is just a plain, Good Ole Boy, white boy at that, apparently hailing from a non-controversial religion because I have no idea to which God he prays.

I am wondering if it would be bad of me to vote for Obama simply because he is black. Or for Clinton because she is a woman. As for Romney... I have played in that sandbox my entire life here in Utah and am not really interested in having The Church run the country - not saying that that would necessarily happen. I just don't want to chance it. So I wouldn't vote for his minority state of being. The other two, however, I am considering simply because I think this country could use with a sizeable dose of something other than the Good Ole Boy energy that has been all too pervasive for far too long.

I am wondering why I don't feel more about the passing of Gordon B Hinckley. I am wondering why I got pissed off because they kept interrupting the Hallmark movie I was engrossed with to tell me that he had died and then pay tribute as breaking news. Shit. I am wondering why people are gathering in lines to wait to view his dead body. I am wondering why people are sobbing heaps of humanity, grieving his death. I am wondering why the Kansas Baptist group feels the need to protest at his funeral. (K... so that is just dumb. They need to get a life.) I am wondering why I didn't cry or even want to post a remembrance when some of my never-been-Mormon friends have done so. I am wondering if I am now going to hell for sure.

Photos for the Candidate Collage above found at following sites:

http://www.johnmccain.com/
http://www.mittromney.com/
http://obama.senate.gov/
http://www.hillaryclinton.com/

Gordon B. Hinckley photo found at:
http://www.lds.org/ (and, ironically enough, the label of the photo was: GBH_hero)

Holding Up My Head

I had an interesting session with my Reiki Master Trainer yesterday. It has been several months since I have been on the table so it was much needed.

For my entire life, I have looked to outside sources to define who I am. I needed other’s approval and definition. Perhaps that is why my sense of “aloneness” is so intensified as of late. There is no one “here” to tell me who I am. For a decade I have been without a guide, without a compass and I am exhausted from the wandering.

Many say, “You are your own compass.”

Yes, well, that is all fine and dandy for those who have been raised up being their own compass. When one is raised in a religion that teaches its people to seek outside oneself to find answers and guidance, it becomes a way of life. It is not an excuse. (And, yes, I am an adult, already.) It is simply a fact. I was trained to seek and find myself outside of me – generally to God who is a distant being “up there” and only attained through a conglomeration of correct protocols. My compass was a deity that was difficult to reach, thus I settled for flawed human beings to be my guide.

For the most part, these human beings loved me. I rarely sought opinions from others who exhibited negative emotions about me as a person. I rarely bought into their beliefs about who I am because somewhere deep inside me I generally believe I am a good person. I just don’t know who I am.

That is a disconcerting statement for many people I know. How can you NOT know who you are? Well, I don’t. Plain and simple.

In other realms, I am also faltering. I think money is a cool concept. However, I have no education about or understanding of money. In my session yesterday, my RMT asked me, “Angie, how do you create money?”

I stared at her, feeling mute and dumb. It was as though she had spoken to me in Atlantean or some other exotic, lost language because there was absolutely no understanding anywhere in my body or head. I imagine I looked at her as though she was daft and I responded, “I don’t create money. I earn it.”

I understood from her sound of disbelief that there was something screwed with that logic. I looked at her, just staring at her, as I let the words sink in. Money is just a symbol. It is paper with an energy assigned to it. Thus, it is, at its very core, simply energy. I understand about creating energy and that it is my divine right to play with the energy I create and that it is comes from an unending source. I, however, have to earn this particular energy human beings call money.

See, I have been putting forth some concentrated effort to reprogram my thinking patterns on many topics. Money is one. Weight is another. Sexuality is, yet, another. This "create vs. earn" way of thinking was a brand new realization of an old pattern. I get the distinct impression that all of these issues are linked for me. I must earn my money, earn my beautiful, healthy body and earn my right to be a sexual being. Somewhere in me is a program that says these are not my divine right of which I am already worthy. I must earn these things.

She and I discovered that I stop myself in all of these realms. Apparently, I am a control freak. Sheesh. Who knew?! (I imagine that there are several people out there [none of which read this blog, I believe] who would say, “Uh, ye-eah. Duh. Tell me something I don’t already know.”) Well, it was news to me.

And it goes back to this: *I* do not know who I am. *I* do not know how I feel. *I* do not even know, at times, how to actually feel. *I* do not know what I want and, for the most part, don’t know that it is okay to want something for me. *I* don’t know how I want to live, who I want to be or where I want to go.

For me, I am starting out as a newborn. And, I am angry about that. At 39, I am just now learning how to hold up my own head. Damn it! Hello, anger. Is this what this is all about? Feeling my anger??! Enough already! I get that.

Or, maybe I don’t.

Wonderin'

When a person leaves a church, let's say The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, why does it seem there is this need to continually prove to themselves - and the world - that said church is wrong/bad/untrue/stupid/etc?

Don't get me wrong, I have had my fair share of wailing sessions and there have been times when I have felt bitter and angry. Especially when I am privy to hearing the entire General Conference talk entitled Mothers Who Know which was presented by the General Relief Society President, Julie B. Beck. (Which, once finding the previous link, I attempted to read through it again. I felt more angry this time and didn't even make it to the third paragraph of the lengthy talk. I believe that particular talk, while annoying in it's repetitive nature, [isn't that what makes any religion work; the repetition?] it is also proof, yet again, that The Church presents a picture of perfectness that no human woman is able to live up to...)

And see... there you have it. Another moment of me getting on my soapbox to report my findings against The Only True Church on the Face of the Earth.

*sigh*

That is so not what I was going for today.

I was truly wondering why so many of us whom have left The Church feel a need to shout against it? It can't be to sway the faithful away from their religion. First and foremost, because a faithful member would not even venture into the realm of the disbelievers. Secondly... well... see the first.

So why rage? It's everywhere. In the news. In the movies. In conversations at parties. And, even here, in bloggerland. I enjoy reading the comedic stances some of my friends have taken. And have even joined a new e-Ward, taken a calling as Deliverance Syndicate Leader, laughing all the way to my designated pew and feeling honored to be a part of a community again. (Because, let's face it, when one leaves The Church, one is not only leaving The Church, but the community, the society, the family and the friends all at the same time. And, even when one wants to be away from all that, unless one finds another pack to become a member of, it is lonely wandering in the desert alone.) However, there are some blogs out here that their entire focus is against The Church. Why?

Are the Once-Members-Now-So-Not-Members who are choosing to rage against the machine doing it in an attempt to create their own church, of sorts, wherein they are accepted and people understand them, even get behind them and commiserate with them? Is it possible that, in our leaving of The Church, we feel that we need to rally the troops around us to support our cause? Is it a matter of safety in numbers?

Or... could it be... hmmmm....

Being raised in The Church, I was taught to bear my testimony often, at every opportunity I received. I was told to bear it, especially, in the presence of non-Mormons, with the hope that my undying belief and faith in said church would inspire another to learn of it themselves. I was taught "every member a missionary" and that I could do my part by imparting my faith to others who were seeking the truth and by sharing the Articles of Faith. (I personally think it was really nifty for The Church to create the Articles of Faith [which were originally only a letter from Joseph Smith and were later voted into the scriptures by the members] so that every member [who is required to memorize said Articles] is presenting the very same thing about The Church.)

Is this new battle cry our testimony now? I bear my testimony that I know, with every fiber of my being, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is the only UNtrue church on the face of the earth... - And is this new testimony something we now choose to bear every day of our lives, rather than just at Fast and Testimony meeting?

Could it be that?

Hmmmmmm....

Magnetic Chaos

In my childhood home, this...

was not allowed. Mom thought it made the kitchen look like white trash people resided therein.

On the rare occasion that anything was on the fridge, it was one current piece of artwork lovingly created by one of her children and afixed perfectly straight with little rolls of Scotch tape placed on the backside of the picture. That was it. There were never magnets or calendars or coupons or any of the various magnetized ads you get in the mail. I never remember playing with magnet letters or numbers on the fridge as a wee child. Nope. Nada. (Funny thing... when my sister began having her children, Mom wanted to get her magnetic letters and numbers for her grandson to play with. Mom, eventually, opted against the purchase saying, "She is just so picky and doesn't let them do things like that," as though she could not ever fathom how that came to be.)

My father does not hold the same repulsion toward fridge magnets. I know this about my father because Mom went to visit him just before their divorce 18-19 years ago at his little apartment and there upon the fridge front were a few magnets he had actually purchased for his place. Mom made a comment about thinking he didn't like that and his response was, "I have always liked magnets on my fridge. It was you that didn't like it."

Me? I could care less either way. Actually, a few years ago I purchased those magnetic words that you can be creative with on your fridge. I'm a word girl so that was a big turn on for me. My daughter got butterflies. We had a blast for about two days and then it got boring and, eventually, most of the magnets ended up under the fridge. I usually have a positive saying plastered - not very straightly and adorned with cute magnets on the corners - to my fridge. My favorite is:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” ~ Marianne Williamson

And, when I get my own place, there will probably be things on my fridge again, although not as much as my father and his wife.

Soooo... back to that fridge... Dad and his wife like magnets on their fridge. They always have had a plethora of them. When they moved to Idaho, she made one in Relief Society that is a little potato. That particular one has always slid down the fridge front if you look at it wrong, being too heavy for the tiny magnet on the back. It has always annoyed me. This morning, as I was sliding that damn potato back into its space, a bright yellow square caught my eye. Now I am fairly certain that square has been there for about a decade and I imagine I have read it over and over. This morning, however, it bothered me. Something about it really, really bothered me...

It is a quote from the LDS Scriptures, Doctrine and Covenants and it reads: D & C 72:4 "For she who is faithful and wise in time is accounted worthy to inherit the mansions prepared for her of my Father."