I feel your pain.
In ways you cannot imagine.
Your pain is generally a temporary kind, whereas the pain for those of us living on Main Street, U.S.A. is full time, full contact, in - your - face sort of pain.
While the sub-prime mortgage debacle is now washing its filth over the pristine shores of banks and brokerages in ways that are most unpleasant, those of us living in places where those now empty houses that never should have been sold are seeing first-hand what happens when risk overwhelms good sense.
I understand the American dream. We want to be successful and have the trappings that come with it. But American dreaming has become an opiate addiction of greed manipulated by power brokers who care little for those trusting souls who lose everything on the roll of the dice as they place their trust and their money into the care and keeping of people who play the market like a red eyed craps shooter on a weekend pass in Vegas.
It's not THEIR money, so they don't get the pain sensation - until now.
But there is one group, tethered to golden parachutes not available to the great unwashed, who NEVER feel any pain at all.
They got theirs and you got nothing and they do not care. Not one night of sleep is lost and not one luxury car or home in the Hampton's is repossessed.
But they should be.
The financial guru's who steered the national debt into overdrive by lending money to people with no visible means of paying it back should now forfeit their PERSONAL holdings to pay back part of the debt they HELPED people to incur.
I am no financial planner, and I don't play one on TV, but dang it - I know someone making 35K a year cannot possibly pay off a 235k house even with a low, low, low subprime interest rate.
The payments would mean that they couldn't have furniture, groceries or anything else - yet they have all of the above.
CREDIT.
INTEREST.
COMPOUND INTEREST.
When anyone borrows money, there is a credit process that goes on. The borrower has to show sufficient resources to pay back in a timely fashion all that was borrowed plus interest for the use of the money.
Interest never sleeps and compound interest is an insomniac gorilla waiting to pounce on people who are not mindful of just how important it is to learn how to use the tool of credit.
Sadly, it seems the brokers, the bankers and the lenders skipped the lessons on how to use the tools and went right to the project stage.
Now, the sad truth is, the mighty are fallen and begging for the lowly to save them from their folly only to repeat the cycle all over again.
I believe in mercy because it benefits everyone, but I also believe in justice because we have to be held accountable even when it is personally uncomfortable.
The CEO's of the failed companies should lose all they have just like the people who trusted them have. It might be a really good lesson to them to learn to say, "Do you want fries with that?"
Increasingly, that is all that is left to those who have been hurt by the stupidity and greed that has harmed the ability to dream let alone to sleep for most Americans.
Just one question though . . . when did it become alright for people to seek a bail out when they drilled the holes in their own ship in the first place?
If I don't do well in a performance review - I don't keep the job.
If they don't do well, they get millions of dollars as a parting gift.
It's time some of the corporate decision makers pick up the tab personally and divest themselves of what they stole by capricious lending decisions that hurt us all.
September 29, 2008
September 21, 2008
Breathe before you get here
Tonight was choir practice after a couple of weeks of going it alone with the practice CD.
Training the voice to match the notes on the page with sufficient quality, volume and breath support is a wonderful thing. Right up there on the highlights portion of my life. I love music!
While we were toiling along together to learn the various pitches, rhythms and parts that define the printed page, I realized that I needed to bring a cushion with me for next week.
One would think my overly padded derriere would provide ample support and coverage for the needs of comfort, but alas, it isn't true.
During the course of the night, I had my choir chair in the 'up' position and was sitting on the resulting sliver of chair as juxtaposed against sitting in the wide, spacious and padded luxury only a flip away.
The truth is that if I fold down the inviting pillowy surface to receive my posterior in its gentle embrace, I can't sing.
It's true. If my backside is comfortable, I can't sing well. It's probably due to the fact that nerves of consciousness run directly through each buttock. So when the rear end is kept totally happy, I lose the ability to make my diaphragm work and support the breath control needed to hold out notes of longer duration than four beats at march tempo.
Then there is the theory that if you are walking for your health that you should walk at a brisk pace but still be able to carry on a conversation. Once I hit that brisk pace, I discover that it isn't all it's cracked up to be and begin to wheeze like a broken down spavined mare at the tail end of a race career.
Such is the case during choir rehearsals as well. The first couple of weeks are more like a wheeze fest until my muscles remember that actual work is involve to suck in and push out all of that lovely life giving oxygen that people brag about being so necessary to life and limb.
The gals on my row and I have decided that we are going to smuggle in an oxygen tank and some of those little nose clips that offer a continuous feed of forced air in the hopes that we can make it through 10 measures of sustained singing without turning blue or passing out.
As for carrying on a conversation while singing... not bloody likely. That equipment is already in use trying to push up for notes that require a stepladder (who in the devil thought second alto meant I can sing a high C for any length of time?).
Last year, we gave our fearless leader a t-shirt from us wags in the back who always create musical mayhem. It boldly read, "This is Choir! Breathe on your own time!" Sister Draughon laughed out loud.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate that lung capacity is as variant in individuals as fingerprints. One might even say we all have lung prints. In my case, a childhood spent with various lung maladies one right after another scarred mine in a few places. That's always a fun topic of conversation with a new doc who asks for a chest X-ray. Then add in a light case of asthma and my lung print is sometimes pale and tragic.
But the good news is that during our rehearsal tonight I only had a couple of moments where I thought I was going to suffocate. They didn't last long. Which is probably for the best. Especially since dead people in the choir seats is somewhat disconcerting to other people. I figured that was poetic justice since most of the people in the congregation are dead or nearly dead.
Also, another worry is that if lung function is insufficent, I could cause a cascade failure like dominoes in full free fall that would make conference a veritable Keystone Kops episode. Picture the choir rippling to the ground from about the midpoint of the choir seats out. While I would be amused when I regained consciousness, other people aren't so broadminded.
Time and toil makes all better and with a pinch of luck and a metric ton of prayer for every note, I'll be able to sing the music and bear my testimony in song.
Should worse come to worse and my lungs not keep me upright and able to breath, remember that Smurf jokes are not considered Kosher for people who are unable to suck in any oxygen no matter what shade of blue my face is turning.
Training the voice to match the notes on the page with sufficient quality, volume and breath support is a wonderful thing. Right up there on the highlights portion of my life. I love music!
While we were toiling along together to learn the various pitches, rhythms and parts that define the printed page, I realized that I needed to bring a cushion with me for next week.
One would think my overly padded derriere would provide ample support and coverage for the needs of comfort, but alas, it isn't true.
During the course of the night, I had my choir chair in the 'up' position and was sitting on the resulting sliver of chair as juxtaposed against sitting in the wide, spacious and padded luxury only a flip away.
The truth is that if I fold down the inviting pillowy surface to receive my posterior in its gentle embrace, I can't sing.
It's true. If my backside is comfortable, I can't sing well. It's probably due to the fact that nerves of consciousness run directly through each buttock. So when the rear end is kept totally happy, I lose the ability to make my diaphragm work and support the breath control needed to hold out notes of longer duration than four beats at march tempo.
Then there is the theory that if you are walking for your health that you should walk at a brisk pace but still be able to carry on a conversation. Once I hit that brisk pace, I discover that it isn't all it's cracked up to be and begin to wheeze like a broken down spavined mare at the tail end of a race career.
Such is the case during choir rehearsals as well. The first couple of weeks are more like a wheeze fest until my muscles remember that actual work is involve to suck in and push out all of that lovely life giving oxygen that people brag about being so necessary to life and limb.
The gals on my row and I have decided that we are going to smuggle in an oxygen tank and some of those little nose clips that offer a continuous feed of forced air in the hopes that we can make it through 10 measures of sustained singing without turning blue or passing out.
As for carrying on a conversation while singing... not bloody likely. That equipment is already in use trying to push up for notes that require a stepladder (who in the devil thought second alto meant I can sing a high C for any length of time?).
Last year, we gave our fearless leader a t-shirt from us wags in the back who always create musical mayhem. It boldly read, "This is Choir! Breathe on your own time!" Sister Draughon laughed out loud.
Over the years, I have come to appreciate that lung capacity is as variant in individuals as fingerprints. One might even say we all have lung prints. In my case, a childhood spent with various lung maladies one right after another scarred mine in a few places. That's always a fun topic of conversation with a new doc who asks for a chest X-ray. Then add in a light case of asthma and my lung print is sometimes pale and tragic.
But the good news is that during our rehearsal tonight I only had a couple of moments where I thought I was going to suffocate. They didn't last long. Which is probably for the best. Especially since dead people in the choir seats is somewhat disconcerting to other people. I figured that was poetic justice since most of the people in the congregation are dead or nearly dead.
Also, another worry is that if lung function is insufficent, I could cause a cascade failure like dominoes in full free fall that would make conference a veritable Keystone Kops episode. Picture the choir rippling to the ground from about the midpoint of the choir seats out. While I would be amused when I regained consciousness, other people aren't so broadminded.
Time and toil makes all better and with a pinch of luck and a metric ton of prayer for every note, I'll be able to sing the music and bear my testimony in song.
Should worse come to worse and my lungs not keep me upright and able to breath, remember that Smurf jokes are not considered Kosher for people who are unable to suck in any oxygen no matter what shade of blue my face is turning.
September 20, 2008
KALB 5k
51:54.
6:39 less time than the Pioneer Day 5k.
And the reason for the faster time?
How many of you have ever had a personal cheerleader?
I'm not talking about having someone in your family who cheers on the team for the win.
I'm talking about a personal cheerleader who is a combination of a perky cheerleader with a sunny disposition and a pitbull (I truly mean that in the nicest way.).
When I didn't think I would be able to keep walking, because at one moment I didn't have any feeling in my feet and one buttock . . . the cheering was ever present "You CAN do this!"
When I am quite sure I lost a lung on a turn because I was wheezing like an old pump organ on its last gasp . . . the encouragement kept whispering "It's not much farther!"
I can't take credit for this.
Sure, I did my part with sweating and walking, but this finish time is all Beth's.
Without the pom-poms, she still cheered. Although at one point, she did do some cheerleader dancing moves, it was mostly just the field chatter that makes you believe anything is possible.
So today I completed my second 5k.
I'm kind of proud. I'm not dead yet. We got a private police escort (because when you bring up the rear and everyone else is DONE - they sort of want to make sure you don't get lost or run over by someone who doesn't believe you are part of the celebrants who are ready to pick up their awards and go home) and I finally dragged my carcass over the line.
Other than needing some water and a quick deep breath to make up for the asthmatic lack of oxygen in my lungs, I'm fine.
While I am convinced that oxygen normally fills my lungs, there were a couple of times I felt for all the world like I did when I was a kid and almost drowned in a swimming pool. The rain this morning left a humid, dribbly calling card that made it hard to breathe.
Fortunately, Beth was breathing for us both.
Now, I need to find my next goal. I need to get another 5k lined up in the sites and keep training. Otherwise, I totally know I will revert to the comfort loving slacker that my genes most certainly are compelling me to be. It must be genetic! Why else would it feel so good?
But I digress.
I'm actually pretty proud of being able to do this. Although the people who run are always going to be an inspiration to me, I am enjoying the process that goes on for these events.
While it is always a challenge, it is sort of what makes it worth it. Though slow and rusty to respond, there is still enough competitive DNA to make me want to succeed even if I have lost a lung, am breathing through a straw, am in pain and can no longer feel my limbs.
The athlete buried under years and pounds and scar tissue still wants to do well.
Thanks to God the Father, who has blessed me to want to keep trying, and to Beth, who makes it seem like a fun thing to do when decent people are drooling on their pillow, it's becoming something I am looking forward to doing.
Who knows what the future holds? Although I have no way of looking into the future, I do want it to be on my feet and not in some sort of buggy because I can't move myself anymore. I just hope this process will make life longer, fuller and continue to be the blast that it usually is.
Even when it hurts, just knowing that I can do something to make things better through the pain is worth it.
Now, if you will pardon me, I'll be in the bathtub marinating in Icy-Hot. I'm sorry to say you will have to get your own, as I don't believe there is any left in the house...
6:39 less time than the Pioneer Day 5k.
And the reason for the faster time?
How many of you have ever had a personal cheerleader?
I'm not talking about having someone in your family who cheers on the team for the win.
I'm talking about a personal cheerleader who is a combination of a perky cheerleader with a sunny disposition and a pitbull (I truly mean that in the nicest way.).
When I didn't think I would be able to keep walking, because at one moment I didn't have any feeling in my feet and one buttock . . . the cheering was ever present "You CAN do this!"
When I am quite sure I lost a lung on a turn because I was wheezing like an old pump organ on its last gasp . . . the encouragement kept whispering "It's not much farther!"
I can't take credit for this.
Sure, I did my part with sweating and walking, but this finish time is all Beth's.
Without the pom-poms, she still cheered. Although at one point, she did do some cheerleader dancing moves, it was mostly just the field chatter that makes you believe anything is possible.
So today I completed my second 5k.
I'm kind of proud. I'm not dead yet. We got a private police escort (because when you bring up the rear and everyone else is DONE - they sort of want to make sure you don't get lost or run over by someone who doesn't believe you are part of the celebrants who are ready to pick up their awards and go home) and I finally dragged my carcass over the line.
Other than needing some water and a quick deep breath to make up for the asthmatic lack of oxygen in my lungs, I'm fine.
While I am convinced that oxygen normally fills my lungs, there were a couple of times I felt for all the world like I did when I was a kid and almost drowned in a swimming pool. The rain this morning left a humid, dribbly calling card that made it hard to breathe.
Fortunately, Beth was breathing for us both.
Now, I need to find my next goal. I need to get another 5k lined up in the sites and keep training. Otherwise, I totally know I will revert to the comfort loving slacker that my genes most certainly are compelling me to be. It must be genetic! Why else would it feel so good?
But I digress.
I'm actually pretty proud of being able to do this. Although the people who run are always going to be an inspiration to me, I am enjoying the process that goes on for these events.
While it is always a challenge, it is sort of what makes it worth it. Though slow and rusty to respond, there is still enough competitive DNA to make me want to succeed even if I have lost a lung, am breathing through a straw, am in pain and can no longer feel my limbs.
The athlete buried under years and pounds and scar tissue still wants to do well.
Thanks to God the Father, who has blessed me to want to keep trying, and to Beth, who makes it seem like a fun thing to do when decent people are drooling on their pillow, it's becoming something I am looking forward to doing.
Who knows what the future holds? Although I have no way of looking into the future, I do want it to be on my feet and not in some sort of buggy because I can't move myself anymore. I just hope this process will make life longer, fuller and continue to be the blast that it usually is.
Even when it hurts, just knowing that I can do something to make things better through the pain is worth it.
Now, if you will pardon me, I'll be in the bathtub marinating in Icy-Hot. I'm sorry to say you will have to get your own, as I don't believe there is any left in the house...
September 18, 2008
Valley of the Dolls
On the back of many cleaning products years ago was a dislaimer that the product contained 'harsh abrasives that may damage surfaces'.
Perhaps I should bear the same warning.
Though I never set out to offend or cause people to be wounded in any way, there are days I am not master of my domain when it comes to my tongue or my thoughts.
Oddly enough, I thought that was part of my mortal journey to learn to control that part of me which isn't up to snuff. But in discovering there is still a broad chasm which I am not even part way across in no way minimizes the damage that has been inflicted upon more tender souls than my own.
Years ago, I read a fairly useless novel entitled 'Valley of the Dolls'. When Daddy walked in the house and saw me sprawled in the chair reading said book, he commented, "You really must be hard up for entertainment if that is the best you can do."
The one thing I came away from the book with was an understanding that there are people who prefer that everyone else in their life act according to their own personal desires and level of tolerance and that anything that might upset their personal apple cart was not to be condoned. With a careful substitution of mechanical women, the men in the story had an idyllic life (to them) and managed to keep their own desires and choices at the forefront of life.
In the scriptures, there is a passage that talks about the tongue being a sharp sword (see Psalms 57:4). How many times has that part likening a tongue to a sword been applicable to me?
Though other people are allowed to express themselves in ways that are not socially becoming, I am beginning to learn that I am expected by other people to never have a bad day or a moment in which I fail to meet the invisible line of personal expectations set by them for "other" folks.
The truth is that I do get angry, frustrated and hurt.
I also am hurt sometimes by the things that OTHER people have wounded me with in their 'off days', but I try really hard to keep that from distracting me from seeing who they really are the rest of the time. I attempt to make allowances and keep a decent perspective even when I am licking my wounds that their own sharp tongue inflicts in me.
But I have started to realize that the ability to understand and compensate for the fact that everyone has a bad day or a bad experience from time to time is something that is hard for others to deal with or understand. IT's like 'it's okay that I'm having a bad day, you will understand, but YOU can't ever have any lest you hurt MY feelings.'
I am not perfect. I have tried really hard to not pretend I am.
I reach out in the writing and speaking that I do mostly out of a sense of profound loneliness in my life that is frequently due to my own actions. I have a tendency to drive people away when they get too close because I truly am afraid that I will disappoint them and never be able to live up to the measure of expectation in their eyes. So, I strike first. Preemptive and unpremeditated on a conscious level, but nonetheless, still a strike.
Compelled to speak when my opinion doesn't matter to ANYONE but me, I haven't yet learned that even on my own blogspace, my words can wound.
I worry about going to hell.
There isn't anything so frightening to me as the idea that I would be cast off forever from my family and what few people have thus far tolerated my presence.
And I am concerned that my lack of self-control where my thoughts and actions are concerned will be the tipping point when the day of judgement comes. There appear to be abundant witnesses to all the bad I have done who can testify in open court about the lack of redemptive material substance in my life.
Somehow I am not convinced that nursing a sick kitten back to health will add up to a lot when stacked against the sinking balance of the pain and hurt and verbal violence I have brought into the life of tenderhearted souls who are suffering under their own personal load. Then I have come and, instead of lifting and consoling and helping, I make the burden heavier and worse to endure.
I'm sorry I get angry about things that bother me. I truly wish I had an unflappable gene that made every slight or misplaced moment mean nothing to me due to my long-range views of an eternal meaning that kept minor annoyances below the sweep of the radar.
I'm sorry that I mouth off about the moments in my life where I feel let down by circumstance or the choices of others. I should be so much more understanding of their choices because I am practically the patron saint of mediocrity and worse.
I'm sorry that I seem to create a list of offended parties whom I have wounded. The worst part of it is that there are many of them who will not accept an apology when I truly mean it.
I don't have a delete button in my personal life. Though my blog has the ability to delete postings and turns of phrase that are objectionable content to the people wading through mortality with me, my life lacks that crucial click of the mouse that can remove offense without leaving a scar.
So, by way of apology to every single person whom I have ever hurt or offended, I am sorry that my lack of proper self-control has hurt you. I apologize most humbly for the suffering and wounds I have inflicted in your heart and soul. And most of all, I apologize for falling short of what I should be, not in your eyes, but in the eyes of Father.
Perhaps I should bear the same warning.
Though I never set out to offend or cause people to be wounded in any way, there are days I am not master of my domain when it comes to my tongue or my thoughts.
Oddly enough, I thought that was part of my mortal journey to learn to control that part of me which isn't up to snuff. But in discovering there is still a broad chasm which I am not even part way across in no way minimizes the damage that has been inflicted upon more tender souls than my own.
Years ago, I read a fairly useless novel entitled 'Valley of the Dolls'. When Daddy walked in the house and saw me sprawled in the chair reading said book, he commented, "You really must be hard up for entertainment if that is the best you can do."
The one thing I came away from the book with was an understanding that there are people who prefer that everyone else in their life act according to their own personal desires and level of tolerance and that anything that might upset their personal apple cart was not to be condoned. With a careful substitution of mechanical women, the men in the story had an idyllic life (to them) and managed to keep their own desires and choices at the forefront of life.
In the scriptures, there is a passage that talks about the tongue being a sharp sword (see Psalms 57:4). How many times has that part likening a tongue to a sword been applicable to me?
Though other people are allowed to express themselves in ways that are not socially becoming, I am beginning to learn that I am expected by other people to never have a bad day or a moment in which I fail to meet the invisible line of personal expectations set by them for "other" folks.
The truth is that I do get angry, frustrated and hurt.
I also am hurt sometimes by the things that OTHER people have wounded me with in their 'off days', but I try really hard to keep that from distracting me from seeing who they really are the rest of the time. I attempt to make allowances and keep a decent perspective even when I am licking my wounds that their own sharp tongue inflicts in me.
But I have started to realize that the ability to understand and compensate for the fact that everyone has a bad day or a bad experience from time to time is something that is hard for others to deal with or understand. IT's like 'it's okay that I'm having a bad day, you will understand, but YOU can't ever have any lest you hurt MY feelings.'
I am not perfect. I have tried really hard to not pretend I am.
I reach out in the writing and speaking that I do mostly out of a sense of profound loneliness in my life that is frequently due to my own actions. I have a tendency to drive people away when they get too close because I truly am afraid that I will disappoint them and never be able to live up to the measure of expectation in their eyes. So, I strike first. Preemptive and unpremeditated on a conscious level, but nonetheless, still a strike.
Compelled to speak when my opinion doesn't matter to ANYONE but me, I haven't yet learned that even on my own blogspace, my words can wound.
I worry about going to hell.
There isn't anything so frightening to me as the idea that I would be cast off forever from my family and what few people have thus far tolerated my presence.
And I am concerned that my lack of self-control where my thoughts and actions are concerned will be the tipping point when the day of judgement comes. There appear to be abundant witnesses to all the bad I have done who can testify in open court about the lack of redemptive material substance in my life.
Somehow I am not convinced that nursing a sick kitten back to health will add up to a lot when stacked against the sinking balance of the pain and hurt and verbal violence I have brought into the life of tenderhearted souls who are suffering under their own personal load. Then I have come and, instead of lifting and consoling and helping, I make the burden heavier and worse to endure.
I'm sorry I get angry about things that bother me. I truly wish I had an unflappable gene that made every slight or misplaced moment mean nothing to me due to my long-range views of an eternal meaning that kept minor annoyances below the sweep of the radar.
I'm sorry that I mouth off about the moments in my life where I feel let down by circumstance or the choices of others. I should be so much more understanding of their choices because I am practically the patron saint of mediocrity and worse.
I'm sorry that I seem to create a list of offended parties whom I have wounded. The worst part of it is that there are many of them who will not accept an apology when I truly mean it.
I don't have a delete button in my personal life. Though my blog has the ability to delete postings and turns of phrase that are objectionable content to the people wading through mortality with me, my life lacks that crucial click of the mouse that can remove offense without leaving a scar.
So, by way of apology to every single person whom I have ever hurt or offended, I am sorry that my lack of proper self-control has hurt you. I apologize most humbly for the suffering and wounds I have inflicted in your heart and soul. And most of all, I apologize for falling short of what I should be, not in your eyes, but in the eyes of Father.
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