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Prayer of Saint Francis for Animals

God Our Heavenly Father,
You created the world
to serve humanity’s needs
and to lead them to You.
By our own fault
we have lost the beautiful relationship
which we once had with all your creation.
Help us to see
that by restoring our relationship with You
we will also restore it
with all Your creation.
Give us the grace
to see all animals as gifts from You
and to treat them with respect
for they are Your creation.

We pray for all animals
who are suffering as a result of our neglect.
May the order You originally established
be once again restored to the whole world
through the intercession of the Glorious Virgin Mary,
the prayers of Saint Francis
and the merits of Your Son,
Our Lord Jesus Christ
Who lives and reigns with You
now and forever. Amen.

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Vegan Inspiration

Inspiration is all around us.  On January 1, 2012, I became a vegan.  Yes, I am a newbie.  At first I thought it would be a nutritional change that would provide me with energy, weight loss, and all around better health.  I had no idea.  I’ve voraciously consumed as many books as I can on the topic, listened to countless hours of podcast and as Colleen Patrick-Goudreau says, “THE VEIL HAS BEEN LIFTED.”  Being vegan isn’t just about the food I put in my mouth.  It is about my perspective on the world around me.  It is about a heightened awareness to the suffering of others.  It is about love of self, others, and the world.  This world, which is not  to own, but is on loan.  I cannot “unlearn” the knowledge I have gained about slaughterhouse conditions.  I cannot forget the way the meat and dairy industry manipulates consumers.  I cannot ignore the government subsides given to factory farms in order to produce food we as humans were never intended to eat.  I cannot dismiss that this same food provides very little nutrients but causes harm to my body, the environment and the animals who are treated with such unacceptable disregard.  I will not forget that cows are kept pregnant to produce milk while their baby calves are taken away to veal slaughterhouses.  I will not forget that chicken beaks are burned off so they will not peck at the flesh of the tens of other chickens crammed in a cage too small for even one chicken.  I will not forget the pigs stacked three on top of one another with feces raining down on them, in pens to small for them to turn around.  I will not forget what I have learned thanks to people like: Colleen Patrick-Goudreau, John Robbins, Will Tuttle, Ph.D., Dean Ornish M.D., Matthew Scully, and Andrew Weil M.D.  But, remembering what I have learned is not enough. Using it for inspiration, sharing it with others, and incorporating it into my writing so that others may have the opportunity to see is what I will do.

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Five Perspectives on Justice

I remember two things about my momma. She used to whack me with the metal end of a fly swatter whenever I misbehaved, and she carried a ratty floral suitcase in her left hand when she walked down the dirt road of the trailer park the day she left us – a flyswatter and a suitcase is all I have. Believe you me, I’ve tried to remember more about her, but I was only six when she left. I don’t have a lot of good memories anyways, and just trying to dig up a few more seems like a waste of time. I was six when she left, you’d think I would have a lot to remember. Junior was barely one. I remember that much because I had to change his diapers when momma left. He’s my younger brother.
Rupert Lee, my pa, is angry all the time. I ain’t sure if he is angry because my momma left him, or angry because she didn’t take us with her. Rupert Lee is worthless; everybody in town knows. He’s always drinking. He always has dirt under his nails from working at the garage. He’s one of only a few mechanics in the small town where we live and for someone who can work on cars, he is plain useless around the trailer. We’ve had two leaks in the roof for a year and a half, and I can’t remember when the toilet didn’t leak. He wears the same clothes to work every day. I only know because it is my job to do the laundry and I only see his grease stained shirt and paints once or twice a week. He stinks too. Smells like gasoline, oil, exhaust fumes, chewin’ tobacco, and straight B.O. His old grungy recliner in the front room of our trailer smells the same way. He’s always threatenin’ to beat us if we sit in it, but who would want to sit in that stinky ol’ thing anyways. He also keeps an empty PBR can on a table beside it for his dip spit. I won’t touch it, even though he threatens to whip me with his belt every time I clean the house and leave that nasty can of spit juice. It’s my job to clean the house too, and even though we have plenty of empty PBR cans around I could easily switch it out, I just won’t touch it.
I ain’t quite sure why momma left, even though she had plenty of reasons. Rupert Lee was a good enough reason to leave. Our trailer was another good reason. It was the worse one in the whole trailer park. It was sittin’ on cinder blocks, not a concrete slab like the others. One time a family of skunks started living under there and all our stuff smelled like skunk for weeks. Once them skunks left, Rupert Lee surrounded the whole base with that ugly lattice. He did a half assed job and it wasn’t until the possum moved in, that he actually got out there and attached the ugly stuff right. Rupert Lee also built an awning out of rusty metal and I swear that thing just made the trailer uglier. Rupert Lee was good at making ugly uglier. The overhang was lopsided, and because of the holes in the rusty metal it didn’t keep rain off a thing. One of the windows got shot out, and Rupert Lee just covered it with a piece of ply board, and he did a piss poor job of that too, because there’s stink bugs comin’ in all around it. There ain’t but one bedroom and Rupert Lee sleeps there. Me and Junior ain’t even allowed in there. I don’t much mind, because that is one less thing for me to have to clean. I sleep on the sofa, and Junior sleeps on a palette of blankets on the floor. We got no air-conditioning, and we use a kerosene heater in the winter. Sometimes we use it; most of the time it’s in Rupert Lee’s bedroom. I guess at some point the outside of the trailer was white, but now it’s covered in green mold and dirt. If it weren’t for all the garbage, car parts, and tires in the front yard it looks like nobody lives here. One time a man from the city came and told Rupert Lee he had to fix the place up, or it would be condemned and we would have to move. Rupert Lee got his shotgun and dared the man to come back and make him leave. I don’t trust people from the city. Rupert Lee never fixed anything and we never had to move.
Rupert doesn’t talk to me or Junior. He doesn’t eat supper with us. He sits in that smelly beat up chair and watches the television. I hate it when he watches the news, because he calls the President a nigger, and I hate that word. I have to do all the cooking, and because I am only ten and bein’ as my momma left when I was so little, I don’t know much about cooking. I can make Hamburger Helper, grilled cheese and fried Spam sandwiches, and I can warm up anything that comes out of a can. Rupert doesn’t seem to mind, but Junior never eats. One time, the teacher sent a note home saying Junior was underfed. I don’t trust teachers either. Rupert Lee beat him within an inch of his life cause of that note. Said he was an embarrassment to the family, and if a teacher ever sent another note home he would make that beating look like a blessing from God Almighty. I think he should have beat that teacher for sending the note home in the first place. I don’t trust teachers either.

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Versatile Blogger

Blogging Awards – Versatile Blogger

Originally Posted by kmstoffel on May 7, 2012 in blogging

K. M. Stoffel has honored me with a nomination for the Versatile Blogger Award.

Gratitude to Kelsey for the award.  I have been on a bit of a break, and am now inspired to get back to more frequent blogging.  Now, this award comes with some rules once accepting. 

The first is to thank the award giver and link back to them.  Thanks again Kelsey. 

The second is to share seven things about yourself, so here it goes:

1) I love pink but prefer film noir

2) I am not antisocial, but have set the bar for people I am willing to hang out with so high, that I wonder if anyone can reach it?  I am not an elitist, I just treasure my time.

3)  I try to teach 10th grade English

4)  My favorite author is Paulo Coelho

5) Recent favorite books:  Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Defending Jacob, We Need to Talk About Kevin, Water for Elephants, Aleph

6)  I would love a job that allowed me to write all day and drink tea. 

7)  Life goes by too fast.

Now, nominte 15 other bloggers you consider worth of acknowledgement:

http://kmstoffel.wordpress.com/

http://forthearchives.wordpress.com/

http://rosymoorhead.wordpress.com/

http://catherineryanhoward.com/

http://myluckytown.wordpress.com

http://busyteacher.wordpress.com

http://never2late2write.com/

http://thegiftofcreation.wordpress.com/

http://bfgb.wordpress.com/

http://chicklitgoddess.com

http://collegecandy.com

http://stumbledownunder.com/

http://snapdragons.wordpress.com

http://fingersandfeet.wordpress.com/

http://fingersandfeet.wordpress.com

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The Absurdity of Hummers

I put the key in the ignition, accelerate, and mash the pedal to the floor. The speedometer needle soars . . . I am wide open now; adrenalin racing through my veins – the force of the revving engine reverberating through my spine. The odor of burning rubber, the sound of squealing brakes, and metal crushing, wood splitting slam against my chest is a whirlwind of failure. Airbags explode with unexpected ferocity.   

I am the cause of a premeditated collision with an obscene Hummer driven by a blonde suburban soccer mom who lives in my neighborhood; I find myself unable to move.  I am bleeding, because I taste the coppery saltiness of freedom; the calming release of endorphins coursing through my blood. I accelerated into her, she slammed on her brakes.  I charged with purpose and determination into her; I left no tire tread. At the moment of impact I looked directly at her terrified bulging eyes. For a seemingly perfect moment, frozen in time, I was free.

     In the three days of intensive planning prior, I chose the location carefully; a winding road near my house with the river on one side and cow fields on the other – certain I would sail into the river after slamming into the Hummer.  One of my neighbors, who I wasn’t particularly fond, drove a yellow one.  I don’t really appreciate her because she is superficial, she has no consideration for others, and I knew I would only do cosmetic damage to her unnecessary vehicle.  Honestly, I thought she was self-absorbed bitch, but I didn’t want to hurt or kill her.  Hurting someone else was incomprehensible.  I was self destructive, not careless, after all.  This was my fortieth birthday present to me.  Death by drowning always seemed peaceful to me. 

     I contemplate it a lot while lying in the bathtub letting the warm water engulf my body.  The key is staying calm; staying calm and water as hot as your skin will tolerate. Oh and a deep tub is an excellent benefit.  Maybe there are more essentials than I thought.  Stepping into the tub begins the adrenalin rush.  Most people get goose bumps when they are chilled, but I get them from the hot water and the anticipation. When sitting down one must accurately measure the displacement of water to account for the necessity to add more hot water later.  It may seem odd, but at first I sit sideways, Indian style bent forward with my head resting on a neatly folded towel gently resting on the enameled edge. Warm familiar water encapsulates me from the waist down, as I dump the garbage from my head.  After my legs fall asleep, I twist around awkwardly to stretch my legs, and the harsh sound of my heaviness rubbing against the anti-slip coating signals to the house I am bathing. 

 God, I hope no one heard, I think.  

Stop being paranoid, I chastise myself.

     Lying back slowly, I welcome the water as it flows in waves over my legs toward my trunk, and the heat, barely tolerable, scorches the more tender areas of my body.  Still, the discomfort is pleasurable.  Resting my head on the rear lip of the tub, I focus on my pasty, white stomach protruding from the water.  Gross.  The stretch marks ripple over the blue veins.  I vomit a little in my mouth and choke down the acidic fluid.  My empty head begins to fill with images of my sausage toes and how there are the five weird little hairs that grow out of the big toe on each foot.  My tour of my hideous body moves upward to my fat calves, and thighs with road maps of sick bluish lines.  How did I get so old that I have varicose veins?  Next stop of the tour is the pouch that surrounds my girlie bits.  I am convinced it is planning a siege, preparing to plant its flag and block any access to pleasure. Then there is the mountainous gut.  I can’t continue.  I slide the rest of the way into the amniotic like fluid, and turn the faucet on with my toes.  The tub has to be as full as possible; I don’t even care if it splashes over onto the floor.  

     Tingling starts in my toes and races to my hair follicles in anticipation of submerging my entire head in the cauldron of protection.  I slide in water engulfing my neck, and then my head is completely underwater.  A few tiny bubbles escape from my nostrils and my ears fill with water.  My long hair floats on the surface Pantene seaweed mass.  Although I am not breathing, I am consciously regulating my systems.  I reassure my heart, to calm it and slow it down. Remember, I tell myself, panic is the enemy.  Pop. My ears are now officially filled with water.  As I relax I become more buoyant.  The top half of my body is actually floating a few inches from the bottom of the tub. I am completely sedated.  It is time to slowly start taking in the water.  Going against everything my body instinctually knows what to do to survive, I start slowly inhaling water.  Small sniffs at first being careful not to panic.  Panic will ruin all of the preparation and bring me flailing to the surface.  Just breathe.  Peacefully take in air until the lungs are full.  I know it’s working because of the gurgling I feel in my chest.  Do not panic.  Light-headedness almost ruins everything.  I close my eyes as I take in even more water.  Success is achieved when I no longer have to actively inhale.  My lungs just fill with water and the world turns black.

I didn’t drown to death in the accident.  I didn’t even get near the water.  I ricocheted from her bumper into a tree.  Not part of the plan.  Something got in the way; an obstacle. 

      “I despise Hummers.” I struggled breathlessly.  I have to tell her.     

     “It’s ok,” she artificially reassured me, panic dripping from her face, “My Onstar just contacted 911.  Someone will be here soon.”

     I laughed out loud at how absurdly similar she sounded to the woman from the actual On Star commercial.  I also laughed, because I have always considered her self-centered, yet I just rammed into her on purpose. From the look on her face I couldn’t tell if she was offended or relieved by my laugh.

     Hummers are like a giant “Fuck You, Environment” on wheels I lay there thinking.  I feel like people driving them are compensating for some weird inadequacy or they have the Warrior Gene I heard about on Dr. Phil – or read about somewhere.  Admitting to watching Dr. Phil makes me feel like I am losing intellectual credibility, so I’m sticking with read – in a scholarly journal.  There is actually a DNA test that determines whether one has the gene that causes hot-headedness.  So any time anyone tailgates me, cuts me off in traffic, or interrupts my conversation I just assume that person has the Warrior Gene.  Every Hummer I have ever seen on the road has been driven by a middle aged woman and I assume they have the Warrior Gene.  I live in Southwestern Virginia.  We get some snow, but during the years I’ve lived here, it’s never enough to warrant a vehicle from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome to drive to Kroger to buy bread, milk, and eggs.  There is only one dish that requires bread, milk, and eggs – French toast.  What is with the French toast obsession when it snows?  There also isn’t a lot of war here inSouthwest Virginia since the Civil War, so I am left completely befuddled about the necessity of the Hummer in my suburb-u-topia.  This forty shtick is very confusing – I ramble.

     She stayed, obligatorily, beside the car for a few minutes longer.  She embodies everything I hate; decadence, too much make-up, too many highlights in her completely unnatural hair where the under layer is vastly darker than the straw colored top layer – even her stupid ponytail was too high on her head.  She had those dopey family stick figures on the rear window of her Hummer, complete with two dogs and a cat.  Her paleness started contorting into a sick ashen green, and she excused herself and returned to sit and wait in the Fuck-You-Environment-Mobile, checked her makeup, and made sure none of my mess actually got on her.

I am still forty, mangled; I sat on the side of the road, stared out of the spider web of my broken windshield, where the blood and my failed attempt crusted over.  Turning forty reeked of failure – I could not even wreck and drown myself successfully. This was not an involuntary reaction.  This was me being decisive.  This involved countless hours of planning.  This was not me subjugating myself to the plans of a world I didn’t understand.  I can’t win. 

Next there were the sirens.  Shit, I just wanted to crash into the river and drown.  I never wanted a spectacle. Then there was the swarm.  EMTs and paramedics, did their job, surrounded me like worker ants descending on a useless scrap tossed to the ground; while the dispatcher’s voice calmly reported the status of various emergency rooms. 

“We’re going to have to cut her out,” one barked at the others.

“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” asked another.

The voices are demanding effort from me I do not have.   

“I just wanted to drown,” I tell one of them.  The two emergency workers closest to me stopped and looked at each other.  One walked off, clipboard in hand to the Warrior Hummer head shaking back and forth. 

“You did this on purpose?”

“Well, yes.  Yes I did.  It was sort of a birthday present to me.  It just didn’t turn out the way I had planned – I failed.”  I half smiled as he scribbled something on his clipboard. He shook his head, in the same manner as the one before, but I could almost see this one mouthed the word pathetic.

I don’t remember much after that – the ambulance pulling into the bay of the emergency room; jostling me, exacerbating every pain, and reminding me I am still alive.  I remember the gurney drop from the ambulance to the ground, and I remember being wheeled into the ER, because the fast pace of the gurney caused a strobe light effect as the florescent rectangles above raced by forcing me to lean over the cold metal bar and splatter vomit on the floor; mostly bile. One of the paramedics snapped,

“We’re gonna need a psych eval!” Another chimed in sarcastically,

 “And a clean up on isle four!”

 The cold realization that this too will soon be another failure, that I can dwell on trying to figure out how it all went wrong swept over me.  I vomited again.

***** 

     There is a place where reality and dreams overlap, barely coherent, when you get that awkward sensation of falling and trying to catch yourself; drifting aimlessly.  Suddenly you are interrupted by a full body jerk. Its medical name is hypnagogic myoclonic twitch; confusion, the victim’s brain struggles to make sense, misinterpretation, and overcompensation – a lot like turning forty.

     I’ve groped around in this primordial ooze trying to understand what I find incomprehensible for quite a while now.  How can an eternity go on forever, when everything else has a beginning and an end?  I am so exhausted with the finite life I am currently the star of I cannot imagine it having a never ending run.

      As I am prodded and poked in the ER I drift to my first memory – the first genuine memory I have of myself. 

The sun shone gentle and warm from behind me as I sat on a lush carpet of tender spring grass.  My porcelain cherub legs stretched out in front of me, as I delicately glided my tiny hand over the blades of grass being very careful to touch only the tips, allowing them to tickle my palm.  My eyes caught one thick blade in particular then another, and another.  Suddenly the serene bond between me and the grass turned into mania as my eyes darted from one blade to the next.  My innocent eyes focused on each individual piece as to give it its rightful acknowledgement before rapidly moving on to the next.  Single blades turned into rows of blades turned into rows and rows and rows infinite.  My chest began to ache, a quiver up my spine turned to pins and needles at the base of my neck.  The gentle sun turned on me and began burning my skin as sweat beads dripped down my temples and onto my neck.  I bolted up to my feet, thighs itching from the grass and quivering from the panic.  I ran unsteadily into the house screaming,

     “Mommy! Mommy!”

She was standing at the kitchen sink peeling vegetables and gazing out the window into our backyard.  She stopped humming a familiar song, and turned just as I plowed into her buried my face into her thighs. 

When I was growing up my mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen.  She would add pinches of this and dashes of that; never followed a recipe.  Her food was ambrosia from the gods.  While she cooked she always sang the same song:

 

When I was just a little girl,

I asked my mother what will I be?

Will I be pretty?

Will I be rich?

Here’s what she said to me:

Que sera, sera

Whatever will be will be;

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera, sera.

 

     “What on earth happened?” She questioned as she gently tilted me back, and knelt down, so she could do a visual inspection for injuries.

     “The grass, mommy, is supposed to go on forever.”

     “No, it ends at the curb,” her face relaxed as she sighed with relief. She stood up, placed the vegetable peeler on the counter, and straightened the front of her apron.  Her apron was covered with tiny roosters to match the wallpaper in our kitchen.   

     “It’s not supposed to,” I insisted.  Things just get in its way.  It should go on forever.”

     I grabbed her finger in my miniature hand and tugged her urgently to our front door.

     “Look,” I pointed across the street – “grass there, and there and there -” I pointed to each side of our yard.  “There is just stuff in its way.”

     I looked up at her stunned face.  Her eyes were searching anywhere for an answer; trying desperately to understand why her child was in such agony over blades of grass.  It wasn’t the grass.  It was the frustration, the pain, the sweat, the pins and needles – the first time I tried to understand something seemingly not understandable – the end of something.  My first memory – too many obstacles getting in the way was also my first panic attack.  Age four. 

 

Hitting her behemoth with my 50 mile per hour force – she didn’t move.  I was forty. My cheap car crumpled like aluminum foil.  The blonde, vain soccer mom pale and shaken slid down from her car and plodded apprehensively with feet of lead toward my mess.

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Images

Images arise spontaneously. One minute you’re balancing your checkbook, the next you’re reminiscing with your mind about the time you skinned your knee while learning how to ride a bike. On restless evenings, you lie in bed, trying to get comfortable while images from the day poke at you through the mattress: the cranky cashier at the grocery, the wailing infant in isle four, your bloated boss waddling through the halls of work wanting to be recognized for his authority. All of these images refusing to die and interferring with your blissful rest.