Embracing the Breakdown

Several weeks ago, I woke up one morning and I couldn't get out of bed.  It wasn't that I didn't want to, that I was tired or comfortable, it was that I could not physically summon the ability to move.  When I thought about how hard it was going to be to walk to the shower ten feet away, I wanted to cry.

This isn't the first time it's happened.  I'm a busy person.  Much of my life revolves around service to others; I pretty consistently take on responsibilities and projects that push me to that point of exhaustion where I've been running at a sleep and energy deficit for several weeks, until I take a long weekend and just hermit/crash when it's convenient.  Generally, when I wake up too exhausted to move, my response is, "I have to get up, because people are depending on me."  So I do.  I summon the will and I *force* myself through it.  I drop things physically and intellectually, I'm short-tempered, I'm barely effective at all the things I need to do, but dammit I got up and did the thing.  I've spent years moving from crisis to crisis like that, always reacting, rarely acting, never planning.  I'm Good In A Crisis; it's a fundamental part of my identity.

Over the last couple of years, though, I've been doing a lot of work on self-care and healthy life patterns, trying to build sustainable habits.  My ability to 'power through' is a good trait, but it's not a lifestyle.  I'm also Good When There Is No Crisis and I'm not using that skill set enough.  So this time, I said, "I can't get up.  People are depending on me.  They're depending on me to be whole and healthy.  They're depending on me to be here in 10 years to help with their kids.  They're depending on me to do things *later* that I can't do if I don't rest *now*."  So I called in sick and stayed home, even though it screwed up some plans.  I slept another 6 hours.  I ate some good food.  And then I took serious stock of where my energy was going; that was pretty hard to look at.

On a sort of autopilot, I'd set up my weekdays as: wake up at 7:30 already late and tired, struggle out of bed, get to work late, stay at work long after hours sometimes working but sometimes just fucking around online, maybe work out and maybe don't, eat dinner around 10pm, get to bed around 2 or maybe 3, repeat.  My weekends were either exhausted collapsing, frenetic social activity, or projects to help friends.  I'd been putting off "get some real relaxation and have some real fun," so far into the future that I couldn't actually see when it would happen.  I'd barely gotten to spend significant time with the friends who feed my soul, and only managed to do so by 'stealing' time and energy from other commitments.

I was still, in some ways, recovering from major surgery.  I'd gotten past the actual physical recovery, but in trying to catch back up on organising the house and doing my workouts and finishing my projects, I'd been running about double.  I also put, for a variety of reasons, a tremendous amount of emotional labor in over the winter, without really honoring the degree to which it had taxed me.  I had started to have severe muscle weakness and facial tics, and had gotten dizzy a couple of times, all from a combination of stress and depleted resources.

Understand, no part of this was unfamiliar territory.  I've been running through various iterations of "Power through until it's convenient to collapse, no matter what you have to burn," for probably the last 20 years, doubly so since the anemia added in a new variable.  I just finally hit a point where that practice became incompatible with my changing attitudes on self-care and sustainable habits.

This also shouldn't sound like unfamiliar territory to most of my friends, who also power through more than not, who overbook and overcommit and make it all come together through the power of coffee and sarcasm, and who run the razor's edge of holding it all together.  Birds of a feather and all that, you know?

At first, I started to look at how I needed to change in the nebulous 'soon' and not at immediate change.  Part of my assessment, though, was an understanding that I had to stop pushing through the now to get to when it would be convenient because I wasn't making lasting change.  So, I set myself solid goals:  minimum calorie and protein consumption, minimum nightly and average sleep requirements, hard limits on when I leave work, a defined bedtime, a specific limit on new projects and physical activities.  None of these is a particularly revolutionary goal: they're the things healthy people do.  And I set one other:  if this isn't better in a couple of weeks of rest and self-care, it's doctor time.

Overall, I did pretty well.  I still missed a couple of bedtimes and had a couple of unnecessary late nights at work, and I have a seriously hard time cramming as much protein as the fitness tracker says I need into my diet, but the limits I'd established set a much more reasonable pace where I didn't feel like I always had to catch up.  I'm feeling much steadier and more balanced.  My planning ahead has stopped entirely revolving around what I HAVE to do, and started including what I WANT to do.  I'm comfortable making a note of it to mention to the doc when I see him next time, instead of actively scheduling a visit.

More importantly, though, by allowing the breakdown even when it wasn't convenient, I hope to break the pattern of 'push past exhaustion, crash, run to catch everything I dropped when I crashed, start the push toward exhaustion again'.  I'm not changing who I am:  I'm going to take on responsibilities.  I'm going to take on projects.  I have a loving tribe of friends who rely on me, and I rely on them.  I will continue to be Good In A Crisis because I don't really know how else to be.  All of this is important to me, and none of it is anything I actually want to give up.

What I *am* changing is the habit of letting non-emergencies pull from my reserves.  There have been too many times in my life when the only thing keeping me from crashing was the sheer number of people I'd let down if I did, and far too many times when the refusal to let anyone down in the short term meant letting everyone down in the long term.  I've had just enough situations in the last few years where having just a little reserve made the difference, and it's finally sinking through my head that I either need to give up the part of my psyche that serves and supports others, or put in actual work to build the reserves that will let me do it without cannibalizing my own health.

Questions to Ask Before You Punch a Nazi

There's been tremendous debate of late over whether preemptive violence against neo-Nazis or Klansmen is appropriate and ethical.

On one side, there are those who say that no verbal provocation is ever an acceptable reason for an escalation to force. and on the other side are those who essentially consider going out in public wearing a KKK hood or advocating Nazi ideology as throwing the first punch and rendering yourself fair game.

I'm not here to debate those questions.  Each of us must wrestle with our own feelings on action, nonviolence, and escalation.  I can't make that decision for you.  I'm here to help you decide, once you've accepted that you're comfortable escalating to violence, whether *this particular moment* is a good one for Nazi-punching.  You should always assume that violence will lead to reciprocal and escalated violence, because it always might.

So, some things you want to consider before you throw that haymaker:

Are you ready for a fight?  Not just "yeah, man, bring it!"  Have you ever been in a fight?  Have you been punched, kicked, beaten before?  Do you know how it feels?  Do you understand you could lose teeth, break bones, or end up in the hospital?  Do you have insurance?  How will you pay for a broken jaw?  Can you do your job with a broken jaw or your hand in a cast?

How many people are on the other side of this potential conflict?  Are you outnumbered?  Significantly?  How many of them look like they'd be happy to let their buddy tussle with you himself, and how many of them look like they'd happily jump in and get a piece of the action?  Is it possible that one thrown punch or even a shove could turn into a brawling mob?  Tip:  it is almost always possible.

Can the people around you handle the escalation to violence?  Are there kids nearby?  Are there disabled or older people who might not be able to get away from a spreading physical confrontation in the area?  Are you surrounded by people who have been advocating nonviolence, who may be placed in danger if you start a brawl with the skinheads across the barrier?  If you bring violence into a space actively and deliberately inhabited by those who seek nonviolence, you may make them unwilling targets of retaliation for YOUR choices.  Many of them are willing to take a boot to the head for justice, but if you choose to start the fight that causes that, then it's little different from you kicking them in the head yourself.

Is the opposition armed?  Are they carrying visible knives, sticks, bats, or guns?  Are you and those around you ready to engage a group of armed racists?  Do you understand that the moment weapons, even improvised weapons, become involved you start increasing the potential for serious injury, death, and felony conviction?  Do you accept the risk of serious injury or real jail time, and do those around you consent to that escalation?

Do you have bail money, or an arrangement for bail and legal support?  Once punches start getting traded the likelihood of arrest goes up.  Be prepared to cool your heels behind bars.  Are there cops nearby?  Are they wearing riot gear and carrying tear gas?  Are you ready to bring tear gas down on everyone around you?

Finally, one of the most important considerations:  is choosing violence the act of an ally or an expression of your privilege?  If you are or appear white, understand that the PoC in the area will suffer harsher consequences if a gathering turns violent than you will.  They are more likely to be arrested, more likely to experience police brutality, more likely to be targeted by the opposition in a free-for-all.  The color of your skin is a shield you can extend to those more vulnerable.  If you become an epicenter of violence, you strip them of that shield without losing your own protections.  Be mindful of what you may draw down upon those you intend to support, especially when the systematic injustice you showed up to fight means, inherently, that you will bear less of the brunt of your choices.

Overall, the choice to meet hate with violence should always be made with a full understanding of the possibilities.  We're living in a world where white nationalist terrorists murder protesters with cars and some states are moving to legalise driving into protests.  Our opposition is brutal, ruthless, and reactionary.  Choose your consequences wisely.

A Little Winter's Thaw

For years now, Imbolc has been my favorite holiday.  A lot of people may not be familiar with it, so here's a quick explanation:

If you're among certain kinds of Northern European pagans, the year is divided into eight pie pieces, by the holidays.  Four of those holidays are the solstices and equinoxes, and then there's an observance bisecting each of those.

At the Winter Solstice, one of the things people do sometimes is to hold vigil for the sun to return after its longest night.  We watch the sun set, and then we stay up all night to watch it return.  It's a way that we can express faith that we will stand through the darkest times, until the light comes again.  We greet the return of the sun with joy, though winter's only half over, because we are now on the road to spring.

Roughly six weeks later, we come to Imbolc.  In agrarian cultures, it marked the lactation of the ewes, the first faint sign that the lambs were coming, and spring following behind them.  Long before the weather turned, before the earth quickened or the trees put forth their leaves, into the bitter grey there came the promise of spring.  Here in Central Texas, Imbolc is more likely marked by the first green shoots and budding wildflowers, to herald our brief and gentle spring before the brutal summer takes hold.

The reason that Imbolc is my favorite is that it's a marker of validated faith.  In the northern latitudes you can't see, at the Winter Solstice, any real indication that spring will ever return.  All you have is your belief in how the world works, that it will continue to follow the laws of nature that it always has, and then at Imbolc that faith is met with proof.

When I lived in the Midwest, I always knew that the worst of the year, the most bitter, brutal, demoralizing cold came in February, in the weeks following Imbolc.  No matter how mild a January thaw might be, there remained the looming threat of weather so cold it would freeze the gas lines in your car, burst your pipes, creep in around your windows to torment your sleep.  The worst of winter was always its last gasp.

As a modern, educated pagan who knows exactly how the seasons progress and why, there's less concern that the sun will or won't come back, and the cycle of the year becomes metaphorical.  Imbolc comes to stand for the moment when the darkness breaks briefly, to give you a glimpse of the coming light before the year plunges you into another harsh test of faith.

My country is in darkness now.  The long election season and the first two weeks of the new administration have cast a lot of people into despair.  We rightly worry that fear and ignorance have handed the reins of power to a dangerous madman, and that we'll end in war -- external OR internal.  The most vulnerable members of our society are at ever-greater risk.

There have been small victories, though.  Marches and protests, rogue government agencies, little wins over policy or polemic.  There is just enough happening to mark an Imbolc moment, a signal to those who crave light that it will come someday and give us the ease and abundance of full summer.

There may yet be worse to come than we've endured already.  There may be more danger, there may be more rage and fear driving our actions and our neighbors'.  It's not yet time to plant our gardens, or plan our leisure time.  We have more tests of faith before us, but we can survive them.

We must apply winter logic, though, if we're going to get as many people as possible through the darkness ahead.

Know your resources and use them carefully.  Check on one another.  Support and take care of your neighbors.  Stand up for each other.  Plan for the worst.  Keep your faith and believe in the better times coming, but make sure your root cellar is stocked to get you to them.  Trade what you have for what you need.  Fight the madness that accompanies isolation and despair with companionship, with music, with laughter.  Find a hearth and circle it with love.  Connect where you can, and fight where you must, but remember, always, that your only goal is to carry yourself and as many of the lives around you as possible through to the better days.

Together, in community with one another, we can reach spring.

Compersion is Not Just About Romance

If you hang around polyamorous circles long enough, you run into the concept of 'compersion'.  It refers to the state, when you and a partner are involved in multiple relationships, where a partner's happiness with another person brings you happiness because you're genuinely invested in their own well-being and you don't view that relationship as a threat to your own.

Whether it's a natural outgrowth of healthy polyamory or a general goal some people struggle towards is a matter of hotly debated opinion, and I'm not going to weigh in on it here.  I'm here today to talk about a different type of compersion: the manner in which it relates to the people your partner loves but is specifically not involved romantically with.  I'm talking about seeking compersion with your partner's friend group.

I am part of a large, caring, close-knit tribe.  We're loud, loving, honest and heavily invested in our success as individuals and as a group.  Many of us struggle with some form of chronic physical or mental illness, so we support one another on the bad days and celebrate the good ones.  We've got a diverse skillset that includes domestic, medical, technical, literary, financial, and social skills, and each of us is happy to put those skills to use to help one another, so that we all benefit from what we each have.  Without this group, my depression would have claimed me years ago; other friends would have failed in things they wanted or needed.

Over the years, some of the people I've dated have been intimidated by my tribe.  They see this group of unfailing advocates as somehow arrayed *against* them, in competition for my time, energy, or affection.  One poor fellow once told me, "Well, I just feel like if they don't like me, you won't like me."

He had it backwards.  If I love you and they see that you love me, my tribe will look at you through that filter, and if they don't understand what I see in you, they'll try to find it, try to build a relationship with you, try to meet you on some common ground, because they want my highest good.  They are invested in me being well and happy, and they consider anyone who is invested in me being well and happy as their ally.  It takes a lot for them to say, "No, I'm sorry, I know that this person is important to you, but I can't accept them."  And in most cases, that starts with a partner rejecting the friends, not the other way around.

The effects of having a tribe like mine have been twofold.  The first was that I chose not to pursue a relationship with anyone who treated my tribe as adversaries, and I feel that I'm much better for it.  If someone couldn't respect the people who love and support me as an important part of my life and necessary to my emotional health, then that person wasn't committed to my happiness.  My partner, on the other hand, has been delighted to find that I had such a wonderful support system, and he has really enjoyed building relationships with them.  Our wedding was a celebration of shared happiness surrounded by people committed to supporting it.

The other effect is that I view my partner's friends as MY allies in his happiness.  He has a group of good friends, and I have made it a point to know and have relationships with his friends, because if they are the people he enjoys and loves, who share in his triumphs and support him in his troubles, then they're on my side because they're on his.  When he goes out with them, and has a good time, I get the benefit of seeing him happy.  When we hang out together, we all have the shared baseline of valuing my partner upon which to build our own friendships.

That's where, for me, non-romantic compersion comes into play.  I have some interests my partner does not share.  He likes to do some things I either don't have time and energy for or an interest in doing.  If we tried to be everything to one another, tried to be the sole support, then we'd both be less happy.  But I can see him come home from an afternoon of games with his buddies, or plan to go out with a friend to see a show, and celebrate the joy he has in doing things he enjoys.  When we have separate experiences, we have things to talk about together.  Even in our monogamous relationship, we can embrace the things and people outside our relationship that make one another happy, and take our own pleasure from it.

Too often, I see the partners of friends or loved ones look at established friendships with suspicion, as obstacles to be navigated or power struggles to be won.  I've seen partners who treated friends as competition for a finite resource, and that hurts everyone.

Love is never a finite resource; time is.  And you have the choice, in your relationships, to compete for that finite resource and ensure that someone doesn't get enough of it, or to share it with the people who, when your beloved's demons come calling, will stand beside you as you help to fight them.

I Will Stand With You

My social media presence is full of people speaking to their frightened friends, saying "I'll stand with you,  I'll fight for you" and promising to use their privilege to help those who don't have it.  As a friend pointed out yesterday, that's easy to say and sometimes tough to do.  Many people don't even know where to start.  So, while there is no be-all-end-all guide to being an ally, I do have some helpful tips for those who genuinely want to support their loved ones.

1. It's not about 'the barricades'; it's about the day-to-day.  It can be tempting to envision the fight for equality and dignity as an actual physical *fight*, one where we might need to take up arms to defend our friends.  I desperately hope it never comes to that.  The real battle is going on every day, in ways that don't feed our adrenaline.  Most of the things you can do to stand and defend involve sitting and listening, speaking and teaching, reading and writing.  It's tiring work, and it must continue steadily to do any good.  The good news is that if you do it right, the number of people doing it with you increases, rippling outward from you.
   
2. The goal is supporting others, not protecting them.  We protect children, we protect the weak, we protect those who are incapable.  Our friends are strong, courageous, intelligent, and dedicated.  They can protect themselves.  Do not stand between them and harm, thinking you can somehow shield them with your body.  Stand behind them and beside them and among them.  You are not the hero in someone else's fight for equality.  You are the sidekick.  Embrace that and be the best possible sidekick.
   
3. Start by listening.  Let your friends know that you would like to hear what they need from you, and then do your best to help them get what they need.  Be present.  Be thoughtful.  Be open.  Understand that they may have been burned, in the past, by 'allies' who demanded a tremendous amount of time and energy and praise in order to be decent human beings, so if  your friends trust you enough to talk to you about things, be grateful for their trust.
   
4. Accept feelings as valid, even if you don't have the same response to the situation.  Don't try and tell people they're overreacting, don't try and tell them things will be OK, don't try and explain to them how it will all be fine and we just need to 'focus on the positive'.  There are people legitimately afraid for themselves and their families, and that's not new.  Some of these people are only experiencing a magnification of fears they've had every day for years.  Understand that there is a real vulnerability in admitting those fears, acknowledge them and take them seriously.
   
5. Don't make your friends waste precious time and energy when you can do the work yourself.  Asking what you can do is good.  Asking for recommendations to read is good.  Asking your friend to dedicate hours to an online conversation explaining the basics of sexism to you and proving to your satisfaction that that is indeed what they are experiencing is cruel and exhausting.  Asking your friend to give you detailed descriptions of what is and is not racist because you want to change as little as possible without hitting any land mines is lazy.  Before you ask someone to explain things to you, spend half an hour with Google.  Don't use that time to come up with ways to punch holes in what they say.  Use it to try and better understand what they're saying.
   
6. Stop hearing "That thing you are doing is hurtful to me and others," as "you're a bad person who should be ashamed of yourself."  Don't make others spend the time and energy to ensure that you have a positive experience as an ally, just because it upsets you to have your mistakes pointed out.  You WILL make mistakes.  Everyone makes mistakes.  Be the person your friends can trust to say, sincerely, "Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't realize.  Thank you.  I will be more mindful of that," not the one who tells them, "Why do I even try?  I'm just wrong anyway.  You should not be so harsh with people who are on your side, you know."  Don't expect praise for basic decency as a human being.  If your friends don't thank you, it doesn't mean they don't appreciate that you're there; you'll notice that appreciation in greater levels of trust and respect and friendship, not in overt praise or thanks.
   
7. Carry safe space with you, and establish safe space where you are.  Be the person your friend can trust to chime in with, "I agree with (friend), I don't think it's OK for you to say/do that either," or "I'd rather you not use that sort of language around me," or "I'm not sure you're aware of it, but that thing you're doing hurts people."  This is a hard balance, because you also need to do it without co-opting others' rights for them to speak for themselves.  Let your friends know you will back them, and then follow their lead.  Don't try to own the conversation, just support the people having it.  Make sure that your home is safe space.  This can be as simple as creating a space where others feel comfortable to speak up because they know they'll be supported, or as significant as keeping your spare room ready to receive someone who needs to get out of a bad situation quickly.
   
8. Embrace and use your privilege.  There is *something* in your demographic that means some people might take you more seriously than they would take those who don't have it.  Once you understand what that is, whether it's your gender, gender identity, race, religion, sexuality, ability, or some other factor, you can use your status in the group to actively include and advocate for others who aren't.  Tell your male buddies you don't think rape jokes are funny, whether there are women around or not.  Call out your other white friends on racist comments.  Speak among your other straight friends of the need for LGBT rights.  Make sure that gender-specific events are planned as trans-inclusive.  Always be looking for ways you can include, support, and amplify others.  If you're aware of areas where you're not privileged, then let that awareness give you empathy in the areas where you are.  When different groups of people work together to overcome each other's oppressive systems, this is called intersectionality, and it is good.
   
9. Members of demographic groups are individuals, not a monolithic hive mind.  One member of the group who doesn't have a problem with a slur or a joke can't 'give you permission' to use it whenever you like around anyone you want.  Some members of a group may not want your active support, for whatever reason.  That's up to them, and you have to respect it.  Some may not recognise you as an ally, while others might consider you one.  Again, that's up to them and you have to respect it.  Remember that these are your loved ones, first and foremost, and your goal should be making sure that you are doing what you can to make sure they, as individuals, have the opportunity to be safe and happy on their terms, not yours.
   
10. You're not obligated to attend every fight to which you're invited.  The fight for justice and equality is going to be decades more at least.  You have to choose a sustainable level of involvement.  Sometimes, you have to say "I am too tired to take that on right now."  That's OK, as long as you do step in when you're NOT too tired.  If you see someone else fighting for their life, remember that they're probably at least as tired as you, and that even a little public encouragement could mean the world.

Finally, too important for a number:  Love is all.  Love is everything.  It is our shield and our fire and our reason for being.  Lead with it.  Live with it.  Fight with it.  Fight for it.

I love you all.

Lumos.

Vote

This will be my last appeal to voters this election cycle.

Tonight, I will get a good night's rest and then tomorrow at 6am I will report to the polling station where I've been assigned.  I will spend all day helping people exercise their right to vote, and then I will come home and, like most of you, anxiously watch as the numbers are counted across my city, my state, and my nation.

I am doing this because for more than 20 years, other people have done the work necessary for me to walk into a polling place and blithely cast my vote.  Other people have risen on dark mornings, blearily blinked away the sleep as the coffee took effect, and put in fourteen-hour days so I could have a voice.  It's my turn now, and I'm excited beyond measure to take my place within the process, to be the one who says, "Welcome, please step into this booth and cast your ballot."

It has never been hard for me to vote.  I've never had to fight for it.  Perhaps I was inconvenienced, perhaps I had to sacrifice an hour or two, but I've never been afraid for my safety as a result of my choice to vote.

That's not true for everyone.  Only a half-century ago, activists risked death to register black voters in Southern states, and those voters risked assault or abuse for showing up to the polls.  Voters navigated poll tests and poll taxes, risked the ire of the KKK, walked past armed men who just 'happened' to be hanging out around the voting locations, marking who thought they had the right to walk in.  And yet they walked in, because they believed in overturning the system that would keep them silent.  There are people who will vote tomorrow who have done so when they believed they might die for it.

Only a century ago, the right of women's suffrage was so important that women were willing to risk assault, imprisonment, starvation or force-feeding.  They were willing to be considered beyond what little protection the law afforded 'decent women' so that whatever happened to them might be called no more than they deserved.  Despite all the risk, despite all the threats, they fought and won it. There are women voting in this election who were not born with that right.

Even the privileged original American voter, the white male property owner, has an obligation.  Over two hundred years ago the colonies took up arms in the name of self-governance, granting you a voice instead of continuing to accept British priorities for colonial lives.  Our Constitution is based on the principles that drove them to take up arms in rebellion.

No matter who you are, no matter what your demographics or your politics, if you're an American someone fought for your voice to be heard.  We forget sometimes how much the simple act of voting meant to those who couldn't do it.  It's easy, in a frustrating election cycle in a cynical time, to get apathetic and feel like there's no reason to show up, no reason to care.

There is so much reason to care.  Our country stands at a crossroads, deciding what sort of nation it will be, what values will carry us through the 21st century.  Choices are being made in the halls of power that will dictate our economic relationships, our basic and fundamental rights, our ability to express ourselves, even the love we choose to honor.  And choices are being made in voting booths that will decide who fills the halls of power.

You must believe something.  There has to be something, deep down in your psyche, not matter how jaded or cynical you may think yourself, something that matters to you.  Somewhere in your ideology there must be a vision for what we as a nation should look like, act like, BE like.

And tomorrow, you should take up that vision, those ideals and dreams, and carry them to the poll if for no other reason than to honor those who cleared your way.

Go. Vote.

Thoughts on Charlotte

This morning's news brings disturbing reports of protest turning to riots and unrest in Charlotte.  I'm saddened by the riots, because people are being hurt, and cops are using tear gas, and the long-term damage is more likely to affect the oppressed, not the oppressor.  All of that makes me sad and frustrated.

It's in moments like this that I seek understanding, and that understanding most often comes from the words of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Among a great deal of the "advocacy for non-violent protest" we're seeing today, he said, "A riot is the language of the unheard."

We see nonviolent protest every day, and we see those who practice it dismissed, insulted, and threatened.  Beyonce puts statements about police brutality, and the loved ones of those killed by police, into her art and she's criticised for being 'antagonistic' and 'too political'.  Non-violent protests block a roadway, and people shout and scream that they're disruptive and shouldn't inconvenience people 'just to make their point'.  Colin Kaepernick refuses to stand for the national anthem as a protest and other players and teams follow suit; people lose their damn minds, threatening him and burning his jersey in effigy.  When people offer peaceful social protest, we tell them to be quiet, that 'now is not the time' or 'that is not the way' to make that statement.

We see police unions advocating a refusal to protect those who use nonviolent protest to challenge their authority.  Aside from the fact that such a refusal is shameful when compared to the Dallas police who gave their lives earlier this year to protect peaceful protesters, it validates the position of those who distrust police and say that access to justice is restricted by institutional racism in law enforcement.

Rioting is the language of the unheard.  That suggests to me that if we want to stop people from rioting, listening will be a hell of a lot more effective than tear gas.  If we want to prevent the next riot, we need to work towards changing the things that keep people from being heard.  If we want to decry violence, we need to support, openly and actively, those who choose nonviolence.

So, if you've got something to say about rioting, I damn sure hope you had something to say in support of that nonviolent protest you're now advocating, when you had the opportunity.  I'll go so far as to say that if I've heard anything less than support and advocacy for people who use peaceful protest to speak against injustice, I don't want to hear a word from you about riots.

If you aren't hearing and amplifying the voices that ask for justice with peace in their hearts, you don't have any right to condemn those who demand it in anger.

BFFs are Totally a Commie Plot

I'm gonna talk about some things that will sound like Communism to some folks now.

Specifically:  from each according to their ability, to each according to their needs.

If that sounds familiar (which it should), it's because it's a paraphrase of one of the central tenets espoused in The Communist Manifesto, which is where people might get the idea that I'm talking Communism.  I am.

I'm also talking community.

In recent decades, as Americans have stopped living in large extended family groups, as we've moved for jobs or schools or partners to cities where family and the friends of childhood don't provide a close-knit peer group, a lot of us have sought to recreate that social network.

We build tribes, squads, groups, phamilies, whatever word we choose to designate "these people are My People, they are more than friends, we are a unified entity," and what we are creating are communities.  Some are huge (the 'Burner community' or the 'pagan community' which have tens, if not hundreds of thousands of associated people).  Some are small, like a group of six or seven who meet up for dinner each week.  They're online, they're in-person, they spring up at annual events.

We talk a lot about 'intentional community' and 'building community' and 'community standards', all of which is shorthand for "we were all raised with different sets of ethics and morals, with different ways of treating people and establishing relationships, and we need to navigate the process of developing a consistent set of ethics and mores for a group that will thrive and support all its members."

It's a struggle to create space that includes free speech and excludes expressions of hate and bigotry.  Where laughter has a place, but people don't mock each other.  Where those in need are supported, but those with more than they need aren't exploited to do it.  All these things are important, but that last one is especially so, because it contains the seeds of ruination for every community:  unequal resource flow.

This may sound cold, but it's true:  all relationships are transactional, most of them unconsciously.  You may not think "My friend bought me dinner when I was broke, so now I 'owe' her dinner when she is broke," or "My friend has spent seven hours listening to me complain about my job, and I have spent six and a half hours listening to him bitch about his partner, so in half an hour his time is up," but you can probably describe several times your friends have helped you out, and part of the value of any relationship is how much you have personally gotten out of it.

In healthy relationships, the transactions are most likely both unconscious and balanced.  You don't stop to think what your best friend has done for you lately before doing something for them.  You just know that this person makes you laugh, gives you insights, provides real value to your life in being there, and that having a relationship that makes your life better generally makes you want to make the other person's life better.  As the scale expands and more people are added into the relationship, it becomes a community and the value of healthy relationships within that community increases.

One of the things that makes a community a community is the sharing of resources to improve the condition of everyone in the community.  Resources can mean a lot of things: money, space, time, creativity, energy, emotional labor, physical labor, intellectual labor, physical assets like cars or tools, anything that the members of the community share with each other.  That sharing allows the community to do more than its members could do alone, and it 'evens out' the experiences of the individuals, because having that resource pool to tap instead of needing to go it alone expands your ability to handle problems.  Healthy community operates on the same principles as ideal Communist theory: we all put in what we can, and we all take out what we need, and it all balances eventually.

We've all seen it: you've got your friend group, your buddies, and over a few years you build a really solid structure.  No one ever has to carry a sofa alone, everyone has someone to cheer them up after a breakup, you know that if you were about to be homeless there'd be a couch with your name on it till you got back on your feet.  It's all good, all easy, all balanced.

Then something shifts.  Maybe a new member comes in and doesn't quite understand the established give-and-take.  Maybe an existing member suffers several setbacks in a row and just stops trying.  Maybe someone has a sudden windfall that drastically improves their personal resources.  Whatever happens, it exposes a problem you'd never realised: everyone is not working with the same understanding of how community resources should be shared, or even what should be community resources.  The transactional nature of the relationships becomes both apparent, and ugly.

This is a make-or-break point for a community.  If you're genuinely willing to face hard questions with integrity, and talk openly about your own philosophies on support structures and resources, you can come away stronger.  If you try to avoid conflict and force the peace, you can end up with a badly unbalanced community.  It can manifest as someone taking a disproportionate share of the community's focus and resources without demonstrating any inclination to share their own.  It can *also* manifest as someone providing a much greater share of the community's resources, and expecting that to 'buy' them a greater voice in the ethics and philosophies of the community.  There are a lot of possibilities for where the imbalance can lead.  In any case, it's usually based in an expectation that someone should 'win' at relationships and someone else should 'lose' at them: the capitalist model of human relationships.

I've been a manager, moderator, guide, or leader in a number of different communities, and the percentage of them that ultimately failed because of resource inequality is high.  My own failing as a leader was that I was not willing to put the health of the community as a whole ahead of each individual feeling completely included and happy on the terms they dictated.  In trying to meet everyone's demands, leaders empower a few greedy and entitled individuals to destroy what we've built, when we should defend it.

The hardest thing: sometimes this means kicking someone out of your community, or just letting them walk away without trying to win them back.  Someone who may be fun and funny, but who also doesn't feel inclined to support or share with others, while gladly availing themselves of what others offer.  Sometimes it means telling someone that they have to fall, because they have worn everyone out with catching them and they refuse to stop jumping off cliffs.  It *hurts* to do this.  You feel like a bad person, a bad friend.  Guilty.

It means standing up to a bully, saying "I don't care how much you give, you don't 'own' this."  That's scary too, because maybe your community's gotten used to having what this person shares, and if you make them mad they'll take it, and leave.  Will everyone blame you that you can't have pool parties any more, because you told the guy with the pool to stop making sexist comments to the women in the group?

We need to be willing to stand up for the value of our communities as their own entities, as discrete things, and be open and honest about expectations in the group, community ethics and ideals, and goals.  We need to get honest about the real value of people's intangible contributions to our communities, and respect creative, emotional, or intellectual labor on behalf of the community as essential and worthy.

The days of the widespread family unit with consistent traditions and philosophy are gone, and if the structures we're building to replace it are to survive, they can't be based in capitalist theories of 'value' that view 'success' as coming out ahead of others.  They have to be based in a communal understanding that we all do well when we *all* do well.

What Now?

As much as it pains me to say it, we appear to have come to the end of the Bernie Sanders campaign.  While the DC primary is next week, and the convention still weeks off, only a major spoiler will remove Hillary Clinton from the position of 'presumptive nominee'.

I have a lot of thoughts about this primary campaign and how it was run, but that's not the topic for the day.  What I'd like to do today, from a position of relative political awareness, is talk to the Bernie Sanders supporters about what to do next.

This campaign has generated incredible energy, immense enthusiasm.  Don't let that energy die.  You can still change the world with it.

I won't ask you to 'get in line' behind Clinton, because there are any number of people doing that, both well and badly.  What I'm asking you to do is find a new star to back, a new focus for that energy and motivation.  There has to be at least one candidate running for something that supports what you believe.

Your local races are important, possibly more important on a practical level than the Presidential race.  In 2016, there are 34 Senate seats in contest, 10 currently held by Democrats and 24 by Republicans.  If the Democrats gain 5 seats, control of the Senate will flip.  Worried about who Trump will appoint to the Supreme Court if he wins, or about Clinton's nominees being blocked if she does?  Put a Senate into place that will support progressive judicial appointments.  Worried about a legislative agenda that further disenfranchises women, minorities, and the poor, or attacks the environment?  Find candidates who'll set a better one, and give them your time and energy and money.

If your Senator's not up for reelection, you can still affect the legislative agenda in the House.  Bigger gains are needed (currently Republicans outnumber Democrats 247 to 188), but the volatility of this race has put a lot of seats in play that might otherwise have been secure.  If either the House or the Senate (or both!) is controlled by the Democrats, that'll go a long way towards blocking harmful choices in the event Trump wins.  If we regain control of the Legislative Branch *and* keep the White House, then we might be able to exert pressure to accomplish some things currently dismissed as unreasonable goals.

Fed up with national politics?  Fair enough.  Twelve states are choosing a governor this election. Unhappy with how state politics are developing?  Looking for better leadership close to home?  Governors have a tremendous amount of power in most states, especially when it comes to whether federal programs and money will be applied.

And last (but so very much not least) there are literally HUNDREDS of state representatives and senators up for reelection, and thousands of local officials.  While you can't really feel that your vote, in your state of millions of people, could possibly really matter in a national election, in a state legislative district that has a few thousand people living in it, every vote matters.  Your city council, your school board, your judges, they all make decisions that affect your real, everyday life.  Putting progressive candidates into local elections means direct policy changes on real issues, and it increases the talent pool for 'upstream' elections later.

How can you help?  Don't just show up to vote.  Pick a candidate to back.  Give them time, give them money, give them attention.  Work for them when you have time, talk to your friends about them, get informed about their plans and policies.  It's a good chance to make a real difference.

If you send $100 to a Presidential campaign, you cover a fraction of a second of a media buy in a swing market probably hundreds of miles away.  If you give them five hours of your time, you're phone-banking to states they think they can win.  The donors who affect the outcome are the ones who can afford to put more zeroes on the check; you're just a statistic.

If you give the same money to a local campaign, you just paid for hundreds of yard signs or mail flyers.  Five hours of your time means five hours of knocking on your neighbors' doors or calling them, talking to them about local issues that affect you all.  That coverage can mean the difference between election and failure for a local candidate.

Many of us chose to back Sanders because he brought the personal to the political, because he spoke to issues we care about, real ideas that have a chance to change the structure of the world.  He spoke of political change as a real, practical tool for making other people's lives better on a very basic level.

We can still do that, and we should.

Blessed Yule

Winter Solstice (Yule) is one of my favorite holidays.  It wasn't always, tucked into the overwhelming press of events that is Family Christmas and Year's End and everything else.  I used to just let it slip by unobserved, perhaps giving a nod to the first day of winter as I rushed to finish shopping and crafting and all my other obligations.

Over the last ten years, though, I've not only embraced my own darkness, but begun to speak openly about my struggles with depression, loneliness, and insecurity.  In doing so, I've come to understand the meaning and the beauty of the Longest Night: the chance to rest in unabashed faith that the light will come again.

Non-pagans, especially my atheist friends, ask me how I observe the longest night.  When I tell them, "I stand in darkness and believe the sun will rise," they painstakingly explain to me that of COURSE the sun will rise, don't I understand science, that the earth is spinning and this is entirely what's wrong with religion and why people of faith are stupid, assigning metaphysical meaning to basic astronomical events.

This is, of course, ridiculous and completely misses the point.

Of course I know how science works; I'm not stupid.  I'm an educated woman of faith in the 21st Century, with a background in science and a curious mind.  It'd be ludicrous to suggest that I genuinely believed, on a practical level, that the sun was going to go away last night and never come back if it wasn't properly called, if no one held vigil to welcome its return.

And say what you will about the ignorance of history, the ancients approached the solstices with a scientific curiosity.  They observed the changes in the length of days, in a culture where the balance between light and dark and the shifting seasons of the year, laying the framework for sowing and harvest, meant the difference between survival and starvation in the long, dark winter.  They were watching to see that the days became shorter to a point, and then *something* happened, and the days began to lengthen.  Without astronomical tools and study, you're not going to develop a working model of how planets move around the Sun, but lifetimes of observed phenomena will make you feel pretty secure that at some point, the cycle will shift, and you start building massive structures to act as accurate calendars.

So why celebrate the Longest Night with vigils and celebrations, with statements of faith, with a joyful welcome of the sun's return, if we know it's just how the world works?  Human psychology.

Through the month of December, especially in Northern climes, it can begin to feel like the darkness will just keep swallowing the year, that one day the sun *will* set and never rise again.  Anxiety sets in, depression and hopelessness.  The food of winter is hearty but bland and unvarying.  You begin to wonder, "Will I be eating turnips in the darkness forever?  Is this all there is and ever will be?"

And then the leaders of faith, the people who guide your tribe with wisdom, say to you:  Trust us, the light will return.  The wheel of the year will continue spinning, time keeps moving forward.  Someday, yes, there will be an ending of everything, but that day is not today.  Today is the day our calculations tell us that we can stand in the rising sun, welcome it back, and rest in the faith that from this moment, the darkness loses hold and begins receding.  The bitter cold of winter will remain, but this moment, here, this is the turning point of light.  We no longer travel into winter, because now we are moving towards the spring.

The world will keep on spinning.  The light will come again.  Though there will someday be an end, that end is not today.

Into every life the dark seasons come.  At some point, almost every living human has had a night they weren't sure would end in sunrise.  Almost everyone has, at one time or another, wondered if they were staring into the beginning of a permanent, inescapable darkness: it will never get better, there will never be beauty and bounty again, I will never again stand in the sunlight and feel warmth on my face.  I will forever be here, eating turnips in the darkness.

The people who survive the dark seasons usually do so by putting faith in the fact that the world keeps spinning, time keeps inexorably moving forward, and that the cycles of light and dark will turn, as they always have, to return to sunshine and the summer days.  This must get better, we tell ourselves.  The world will return to balance, the cycle of the year will proceed, and if we can just hold faith through the Longest Night, the sun will return, and hope with it.

Not everyone makes it.  Every Yule, in the safety of the risen sun, I take a moment to think of those who held on as long as they could in darkness, but whose grasp failed before the light came.  I have, at various points in my life, been angry at them, been broken-hearted at losing them, felt guilty for failing them, and almost been one of them.  But now, when I think of them, I feed my own fire, building it up in hopes that if there's someone whose grip is weakening, they might be reminded of the sun by the light of my burning.

I love you all, and Blessed Yule.

Getting Blood Without Trading A Pound of Flesh for It

As many of my friends know, I have chronic anemia.  Its cause isn't really known, except that I don't appear to be bleeding internally or destroying my own blood cells, so it's more of a "hey, keep an eye on that" thing instead of a "constant battle with death" thing.

The last two weeks, I've had what could be termed a health crisis, essentially caused by my body's tremendous adaptivity.  Oh, the body says, you figured out you should go to the doctor when you feel tired?  Well, let's make you the same level of tired at life-threatening low iron, as with your sort of average regular low iron, and let's improve our efficiency at the same time we develop asthma that explains all this extreme shortness of breath.  So instead of thinking, four months ago, "Holy cow, this is heavy-duty tired!" I've been thinking, "Yeah, feels like I oughta go see my hematologist before the end of the year."

A couple weeks ago, I made an appointment with a new doctor for the newly-developed asthma and recurring foot pain.  He ordered a routine iron test, which happens most times I visit a doctor and usually triggers a call a day later that says, "Yep, time to check in with the hematologist.  I called her office, and scheduling should call you today or tomorrow," followed by a month of infusions.  This time, it triggered a call that said, "You need to go to the hospital NOW.  You have critically low iron."  They didn't tell me on the phone, but there's a high risk of heart attack and stroke when your iron gets sufficiently low, because, well, there's no oxygen getting to important things like your heart and your brain.

I let the receptionist know I was leaving, and headed to the ER.  I spent the next seven hours or so getting a blood transfusion.  Starting with that first appointment with my doctor, I have had:

• One doctor's office visit with lung capacity test
• One iron test
• One chest x-ray
• One emergency room visit
• Two blood transfusions totaling four units of blood
• One bone scan on my foot to rule out stress fracture
• One consultation at my hematologist's office, with blood tests
• One iron infusion
• One fitting for a supportive boot, including the purchase of said boot

This week I have another blood test, another hematologist consult, and another iron infusion, followed by two more over the next few weeks, and probably a prescription for a daily asthma inhaler.  Ordinarily, I'd be awash with money anxiety.  Many of these are expensive treatments (when my first iron infusion was not covered because of a 'preexisting condition' it cost me a thousand dollars out of pocket).  I know that a lot of people, including my own past self, would look at this list and despair.

I'm not, though.  At this point I have not taken a single cent out of my checking account, and it's not likely I will.  You see, not only do I have what I'm finding out is the Really Good Insurance, my company provides something called a Health Savings Account, with which most folks are familiar.  For those who aren't, I have a certain amount of money taken out of my pay and placed into a special account, and my company gives a lump-sum payment for taking the 'high-deductible' insurance plan -- a lump sum that conveniently covers almost that entire deductible.  I carry a credit card attached to that account, and what this means in practical terms is that I have a reserve of cash especially for medical expenses, that carries from year to year if I don't use it.

I don't say this to gloat over those who don't have this sort of safety net.  I say it because I want people to understand what the effect of that net has been.  Ten years ago, a call to go to the ER would have been greeted with, "I can't afford the ER.  How necessary is this?"  I'd be doing my best to struggle along with Urgent Care centers, wouldn't be able to afford a hematologist, and wouldn't *remotely* be able to afford the blood transfusions and iron infusions.  I don't make enough money that a $6,000-8,000 outlay over the course of two months every year is even a thing I can contemplate.  Every care decision, along the way, would have had to balance "How do I afford it?" and "Can I do without it?" against "I need to buy food and keep power on."  The safety net has left me free to think only of my health and the best course of treatment with regard to my healthcare decisions.

It's also drastically decreased my anxiety levels.  And, well, when you have a condition that increases your risk of a heart attack, and another one that affects your ability to breathe, anxiety can be a serious detriment to your health.  My only anxiety has been around trying to get the infusions scheduled so I can still attend an out-of-state wedding I *really* want to go to.  That peace of mind?  Directly contributing to the expectation that I'll get better.

I joke about feeling 'like an adult' because I have finally established that sort of safety net, combined with a savings account and a steady budget, so that a drop in hemoglobin doesn't completely derail me, but this is not "adulthood."  This is "what living in a developed nation should feel like for everyone."

This sort of security, this ability to make my decisions between me and my doctor, not me and my creditors, for my health is a human right and I believe that everyone deserves that right.  It should be available to the stay-at-home parent, to the entrepreneur starting a business on a shoestring budget, to the self-employed artist, to the fifth-generation farmers working their family's land.  You shouldn't have to take or keep a bad job based on the level of health security you need.

What we have now is an imperfect system.  Some aspects of the ACA, like the erasure of the 'preexisting condition' and the availability of healthcare exchanges, are great.  Others, including the penalties for people who don't buy insurance, are not the best solution for the problem because they still drag insurance companies into the mix and put some families into a pinch.

However, I look at it as a waystation stop on the road to real, fully socialized medicine.  I know that socialized medicine has its problems, but that none of those problems is "Do I go to the Emergency Room because I am having chest pains, or do I pay the electric bill next month?"  None of them is "Can I afford my meds *and* my food?"  None of them is having to do what I have done in the past: putting off essential care, even the basic doctor visits, because doctors get really angry when they tell you that you need a treatment, and you agree, but tell them, "I probably won't get it because I simply can't afford to."  And I've had more than one hear, "I respect your opinion, but I cannot afford to eat if I follow the course of treatment you deem essential," and refuse to treat me at all because I "just don't care about my health."

A lot of people I know argue that the problem is the 'high cost of medical care'.  I won't argue that's a serious problem.  But even if costs were half what they are, or a quarter, I could not easily have afforded the last week and the coming ones, and I'm relatively comfortable.  I get my infusions at a chemotherapy center.  I sit there and look at these people, many of whom can't work, who are spending tens of thousands of dollars a year in a direct and active battle with death.  Even at a tenth of the cost, most of them would have to give up treatment; 'reducing the cost of care' without keeping a safety net in place is not a viable, reasonable option.

Perhaps it's the self-interest of a chronic health condition that makes me an advocate for a centralized, single-payer healthcare system.  Perhaps it's the laziness of not wanting to have to individually bargain down the costs for every procedure I need or spend hours doing cost-benefit analyses of insurance programs, or a pessimism towards us ever having a fair system as long as it's partially run by profit-based insurance companies.  I don't know.

But what I do know is that I have something I want everyone in this country to have: peace of mind regarding my health options, and a life without the fear that a serious illness or injury will destroy everything I have built in my life and leave me stranded, dependent upon others, and hopeless.

Now I Am Prime Again

A year ago today, I was returning from riding roller coasters with my best friend, musing on what it really means to be an adult.  The entire notion that because of the hard work and effort I'd put into building a career and a community and structures and relationships, my fortieth birthday literally meant turning a profit riding roller coasters because it cost me less than a day's wages to do so, has colored my year.

The last ten years, more than anything, have been spent building.  Building communities, building trust, building relationships.  Growing into my own identity as a priestess, as a counselor, as a friend, as a woman.

The hardest lesson in these ten years is that though my choices have far-reaching effects, my power stops at the ends of my arms.  If it's not within my control, then it's a variable beyond my influence.

It's hard to watch someone you love struggle through unhappiness, unable to help him figure out the key, that it has to start in your heart and move outwards, because no amount of pressure will drive it in to your core.  I see people I love moving towards what look like painful life lessons, and I can only point and call out, "Mind that first step, there."  Sometimes I can't even do that, because they're so well-shielded against anything that will crack the facade of bitterly determined vengeful happiness they're forging.

It's hard to watch communities tear at themselves, and be unable to stop them because patterns of hate lie like railroad tracks, driving people inexorably towards conflict.  To hope desperately that common sense will prevail, as reason shatters upon the rocks.

It's hard to see people grinding themselves to nothing in the name of justice, compassion, and mercy, because there is so much work and it will never be done in our lifetimes but we cannot stop trying.  To watch hearts break as hope fails, and to work to gather the pieces and begin to build with what can be salvaged.

That little voice that tells me to take up arms and rise against the windmills that plague others has been a guiding force of my life, and it's only really been this year that I see:  It drives me to their battles to avoid acknowledging my own.

I can't say what's triggered this self-knowledge, this realisation that I must, in the next ten years, begin to get a real handle on the lessons I can use with my own two hands to keep my own life at the center of my priorities, but it's been a strong and powerful month.

A while ago, I began the process of reclaiming my life, of pulling back into control and learning to focus my energies on what feeds me in some way.  And this process of building a life outside of meeting the needs of others has been ongoing for about three years now.  But I see now that the realisations I thought were answers were only the beginning of a thousand more questions.

The first question I am asking, the one it is hardest to face, is "What can I build that serves me alone, that does not benefit me as a side effect of serving someone else?"

I Am Capable of Procuring My Own Freshly Dismembered Plant Genitalia

I love cut flowers.  I love them a lot, probably to an unreasonable extent.  There's just something bright and cheery about them, a little bit of outside come in to beautify the day.  If I could, I'd have cut flowers in every room of my house, every day, all the time; they're one of the few things that never loses its 'special' quality.  It's possible I've played the Smithereens' "Cut Flowers" a few (thousand) times.

As a young woman, I absorbed the cultural narrative that cut flowers were a thing boys gave you.  If you didn't have a boy, you didn't get any flowers.  Sure, sometimes your dad sent them to you, and if you were in Texas for Homecoming your best friend got you a giant mum, but the 'flowers come from boys' meme was firmly entrenched in my head.

I was not a girl the boys pursued, and my luck ran to not-particularly-romantic gentlemen.  "Happy Valentine's Day, I got you a tool set!" was always conflicting for me, because I *liked* the tool set, and I *needed* new tools, so it was a wonderful gift and I loved it, but I sure would have liked some flowers, and I had said so, but I still usually got told "Oh, you know, you're so fierce and strong and practical I thought you wouldn't go in for silly romantic stuff!"  In between practical non-romantic boyfriends, I've been single for a lot of my adult life, so receiving flowers is still a rarity for me, something I find special every time.

Years ago, I was lamenting my perennial flowerlessness to an older friend, and she said, "Just buy your own flowers."  When I protested that doing that seemed like giving up, like settling for what I could get, she said, "No.  It's not giving up at all.  It's independence.  Flowers are easy.  You walk into the store and you buy some, and then you have flowers.  No meaning, no hidden statements about your worth as a person, just flowers."

The first time I gave myself flowers, I stood sort of furtively in the grocery store line, sure that everyone knew I was a pathetic loser who didn't have anyone to send her flowers.  The cashier stopped, looked at them, looked at me, and then picked them up and SNIFFED them delightedly.  "I love flowers," she said.  "I wish someone would buy some for me, too.  Your friend or whoever is lucky."  I almost told her the truth, but couldn't quite admit that I didn't have someone to buy them for or someone to buy them for me, so I smiled and said, "I love flowers too."

Since then, I buy myself flowers regularly.  I also go to movies alone if I want to see them, instead of waiting for a date to see them with.  If I feel like dinner in a nice restaurant, I eat dinner in a nice restaurant, enjoying it whether my companion is a boyfriend or a book.

I'm not saying it happened overnight, the belief that going ahead and doing the 'date things' myself isn't settling.  Even now I fight the curious looks from hostesses when I cheerfully say, "No, I'm not waiting for anyone.  Just one, please," and refuse the suggestion that I sit in an uncomfortable chair at the bar and eat my furtive lonely dinner under a giant football game on the TV.  No, I'll sit in the dining room, thank you, and enjoy my meal just like anyone else.  And when the cashier asks me who the flowers are for, I smile and say "They're for me.  I just love flowers."  One or two of them even said, "I never thought of buying them for myself.  I should do that!" and I always agree enthusiastically.

The journey to loving myself so that I didn't depend on someone else to do it for me has been so worthwhile, though.  While I'm dating a lovely man who does buy me flowers and plan sweet romantic weekends, I'm able to look at those gestures and appreciate them all the more because I don't depend on them to 'prove' I am loved.  They are allowed to be exactly what they are: expressions of love and appreciation that are sweeter for not being required, for not filling in some relationship check-box.  If you're depending on someone else's love to make you feel worthwhile, then you never will.  The void has to be filled from the inside; it'll just consume whatever you're given by others, voracious and unchanging.

Today is Valentine's Day, a difficult day for many.  For some, the holiday is just a stupid commercial Hallmark holiday designed to throw another set of rapids into relationship navigation.  For others, it's a genuinely painful reminder of love lost or missed, of personal emptiness.  Some of my friends have lost a partner in the last year, and my heart goes out to them.  Today, more than any other day of the year, we fight the social machine that tries to make us worthless, that slams binary genders into heteronormative monogamous constructs and dismisses everything else as 'weird'.  If you don't have love, if your love is wrong, if the love you have is incorrectly expressed, you're told that it makes you different, ugly, deviant, less-than.

I'm lucky, in my life, to have so many shining examples of love done right.  In all manner of incarnations, from freewheeling uncommitted singles to stable, dedicated polyamorous blended families, I am surrounded by people making love work, and making love into a life.  Maybe it's maturity, maybe it's the power of attraction drawing people like me to me, but the core of people who form the closest and most important structures in my life all share one thing, regardless of relationship status: we all recognise the value of loving yourself, of being happy to buy your own flowers and delighted when someone else buys them for you.  We all see, in ourselves, something worthy of loving and we're all committed to bringing that out into our daily lives.  When we look at each other, our partners, and ourselves, we see beings of light and wonder, souls we embrace without reservation, and individuals worthy of love, and we love each other, and that's good.

I love you all.

On Gratitude

You see it a lot, the phrase 'an attitude of gratitude'.  Over November, many people I know were doing 'thirty days of gratitude' across various social media platforms, taking some time each day to offer a general acknowledgment of something or someone for whom they felt thankful.

Here lately, I've also seen a lot of people wrapping up the end of the year with "I'm so glad for all I have!" posts, talking about wonderful communities and wonderful friends and the support they receive every day.  They gush, in glowing terms, how lucky they are to have made such wonderful friends.

I think I'd like to ask them a couple questions.

You've acknowledged your general gratitude for the things and people in your life, but have you specifically thanked and acknowledged the people who have helped you?  How often do you sit down, and instead of throwing a general thanks 'out there', seek out some person who's done something to support or empower or protect you, so that you can say "I see what you did, and I honor what you did, and I could not have achieved what I have if you had not?"

That's the thing, you see.  In the US, we glorify the culture of the 'self-made man'.  And in the culture of the self-made man, there is no room for specific gratitude, because it suggests that another person's work and love had some impact on who you are, that you are not wholly self-made.  So long as you keep your thankfulness general, you don't have to admit that there was some part of that self-making that you simply did not and probably could not accomplish on your own.

It's OK to thank God (or the gods) if you're a 'self-made person' because you can subscribe to prosperity doctrine or the law of attraction, that says that if you have the right faith, belief, or mindset, that's all that's needed for divine or universal blessings to be given to you (see also magical thinking).  You can couch your acknowledgment of what you've been given with vague gratitude so that the credit still really rests with you, for 'keeping positive' or 'being a good person'.  It's karma, you see, that your previous good deeds have put a down payment on the world rewarding you with help when you need it.  If this friend hadn't chosen to help  you, someone would have, because you deserved it.

Same thing with being grateful for your community.  Sometimes people say "I'm grateful that I have such good friends," and I hear "Congratulations to me for choosing friends who will help and support me regardless of whether I have helped and supported them!"  Keeping gratitude general still lets you, on some level, claim credit for foresight or good judgment in ensuring that community would be a resource to you.  (it is fine to be grateful that you have good friends, as long as you understand that you should probably also occasionally acknowledge why, precisely, they ARE such good friends)

When it comes to specifically looking at your life, and recognising that an individual made a deliberate choice he or she was not obligated to make, to benefit and support you, that can be very daunting for some.  To admit to real and specific gratitude to another person's free choices is to swallow your pride and acknowledge that your identity as 'self-made' is a convenient fiction.

None of us is self-made.  We must all own our decisions, and we are all in control of how we will respond to what happens to us, but we all owe gratitude to someone, somewhere.  Maybe it's as small as 'stopped to help me change a tire on the way to a job interview' or 'stayed on chat with me all night when I was stressed about my sick cat' but it's there.

So I challenge you, when you practice your attitude of gratitude, to examine your life, and pinpoint those choices that others have made for you, out of no obligation other than love, empathy, or compassion.  Then seek out those people (if you can find them) and personally thank them, not 'for all you did' but for 'that moment in time'.

Thank you for reading my blog, by the way.  Every time I see clicks or comments, it inspires me to keep writing.

Winter Driving Tips for the Uninitiated

As we head into our first winter storm weekend here in the lovely People's Republic of Austin, I hear many of my native Texan friends talking about how they have no idea how to drive in ice or snow.  People who cannot drive in ice but insist on doing it are a danger to everyone else on the road.  Therefore, your Friendly Midwestern Badger would like to give you some driving tips.  Here are the rules for driving in ice and snow:

1.  Don't.  Before you leave, ask yourself, "How much do I REALLY need to be there?"  Ask yourself if what's at stake is worth a couple grand of damage to your car or a hit on your insurance, because even if you're being really careful, someone can still hit YOU, and even if you're not hurt, accidents are expensive.

2.  Plan ahead.  Consider your route.  How many bridges and overpasses does it contain?  How many of those long curving flyovers Texans love so much?  How many times will you come over a hill to find a sharp curve or a stop light at the bottom?  These are all accidents waiting to happen.  Once you have considered your optimal route, revisit question 1 before proceeding.  If you still must proceed, double your expected trip time.

3.  Go slow.  Like really slow.  Like ten or fifteen miles below the speed limit slow.  Yes, your buddy who grew up in Wisconsin will laugh at you, but he learned to drive 60 in a blizzard at age 18 in a car made entirely out of cheese; you did not.  Allow an extra carlength above and beyond your usual caution between you and the car in front of you.

4.  You have no brakes.  Do not use them, do not touch them.  They are a trap.  Control your car as much as humanly possible using changes in direction and acceleration; if you slam on the brakes, the terrorists win.  Brakes will just add fuel to the fire of a skid.

5.  Steer into the skid.  Everyone says this, but if you've never done it, it's a really difficult thing to explain to you.  Basically, when you feel your car start to slip, you'll have this impulse to fight it.  Don't fight it.  Zen that bitch out, embrace the skid, and pull your car *through* it instead of *against* it.  If you have sufficient room, you'll be fine.  Just pull over for a few minutes to regain your composure, because that first-ever skid is very alarming.  To practice, Midwestern parents take their children for a day known as Shopping Mall Donut Day.  On the first snowy day, large parking lots (like those at shopping malls before they open) are often full of helpful parents and friends teaching new drivers what the hell 'steer into the skid' means.

6.  Aim for the ditch.  If all these other rules fail you, and you find yourself in an out-of-control car, your only option is to *aim* it.  You can't steer it, you can't stop it, you can't regain control, but you can *point* it at something.  Point it at the ditch, point it at the grassy median, point it at the bushes.  Having to wait two hours for a tow truck to pull your happy ass out of a clump of rosemary in your neighbor's front yard is vastly preferable to having to tell him you slammed into the car parked next to his driveway.

And above all, remember your manners and be aware, because not everyone has a Friendly Midwestern Badger.  Remember that someone spinning through an intersection probably didn't have time to use his turn signal (and which way would he signal, anyway?).  If you bump someone or someone bumps you, try to work it out without being a jerk about it.

Know what the inclement weather reporting rules are; in some states, during weather events you can report an accident for up to 24 hours afterwards instead of calling the police, if everyone involved agrees and no one is injured and the damage is minimal.  Take advantage of that, because waiting an hour for an irritated cop to get OUT of a warm car in 30-degree weather to sign off on your scuffed bumper is a near-guarantee that you'll be ticketed for whatever the officer can find, while filing a walk-in report (if that's legal) usually means that *if* you're ticketed, it's purely for the 'failure to maintain safe speed' or 'failure to maintain control of your vehicle'.  Just don't forget to report it, because if the other driver reports it and you don't, there can be trouble.

Be safe!

(seriously, if at all possible stay home and drink some damn cocoa instead.  Light a fire in the fireplace you never get to use.  This is Texas; it'll be 65 degrees in a day and a half)

On Holidays Secular and Spiritual

When I was a young Badger, I started to understand that my country celebrates two Christmases.  There's the solemn celebration of the birth of Christ, honoring God's promise of hope and salvation.  And there's the warm, loving celebration of time with family and friends, exchanging gifts and drinking eggnog and singing about sleigh bells.

Even when I was Christian, those two holidays were different for me.  When we went to evening/late services on Christmas Eve, I didn't associate the magical candlelight sermon on hope and love with the next morning's explosion of wrapping paper and Family Dinner.  I found that the differentiation seemed easier for me than for many of my peers, over the years, as they wrestled with cramming spirituality into a Christmas stocking.  And when I left Christianity, I had no trouble keeping Family Christmas alive in my life and discarding Spiritual Christmas, which had ceased to hold a deep meaning for me.

Lately I've been coming to understand that today has a similar dichotomy for me.  There's Hallowe'en, which is the orgy of costumes and candy and spookiness that seems to bring out the kid in every last person.  And there's Samhain, the dark winnowing to end the year, when the veils are thin and our dead stand among us.

I like Hallowe'en just fine.  I like candy, and I like to see other people's costumes, and it's great to watch people get SO INTO creativity and expression because maybe they don't feel like they've got an excuse year-round.  But I find that I celebrate it mostly by observation, by watching others embrace it.  I have no costume ideas.  I don't feel compelled to carve up a pumpkin for the office contest.  While I totally respect the effort that goes into designing witch hats out of donuts, ice cream cones, frosting and sprinkles, I have no desire whatsoever to put forth that effort.

Samhain, though, is incredibly important for me.  It's the time of the year when most are pulling inward to rest through the dark part of the year, when I and those like me, who have chosen the alternate path, begin our winter's burning to stand as guideposts and guardians.  Today, so to speak, I take up my sword and begin my watch.

Today I stand in love and trust with my dead gathered around me, not mourning them but honoring them.  I thank those voices that have spoken to guide me, I am grateful for those who walked into darkness to light my own way, giving me the courage to stand as light for others.

After long years of wrestling with this holiday dichotomy, I'm finally at peace with something: I don't celebrate Hallowe'en.  I love to watch it go by.  I laugh and enjoy other people's celebrations, and it makes me genuinely joyful to see all the fun and happiness.  I am not, by any means, a Hallowe'en Grinch.

But this is one day of the year I have to stand apart, my loves.  As I take up more fully the path of the Warrior, as I step more deeply into the Wood, sometimes I have to choose the path apart from the crowd, because what I am doing needs my full attention.  I don't begrudge you the ability to balance the secular and the spiritual in your celebrations, to stir the cauldron and still use it to bob for apples.  Perhaps in future years I'll manage that balance as well, but right now, at this time in my life, what I am doing in the spiritual consumes my focus.

I have been, as I do, resting this summer.  Today is my last day of rest for a season.  Tonight I gather my final harvest, draw upon the energies I've been storing, and light the fire I'll hold through until spring.

Let me say, because I do not say it often enough: I am more grateful than I can ever say to have been given this space to burn, this torch to bear.  For the trust I am offered, for the chance to serve and ward, I am thankful.  My harvest is not of the physical; it is the trust, respect, and love of those people, living and dead, who are part of my life.

I love you all.

In Which I Do Not Care Why You Made That Choice, Just That You Were Free To Make It

I'm going to tell you something I generally only discuss with people I'm considering as potential long-term committed sexual partners:

I do not believe it would be ethically or morally right for me to terminate a healthy pregnancy, so I won't do it.  If I become pregnant, and the fetus and I are physically able to survive and thrive, I will carry the baby to term and raise it.  The level of the father's involvement will be at a minimum fiscal, and based on our relationship at the time.  I won't sleep with anyone who can't accept that reality.  I have great respect for the two or three partners over the years who've said "Yeah, I am really not ready to be a father in any way shape or form and I am not willing to take that risk," and either limited involvement with me to non-risk behaviours or ended the relationship entirely.  That takes a lot of self-awareness and integrity.

Why won't I terminate a healthy pregnancy?  Because I'm physically, emotionally, and financially able to take care of a child.  Because I'm educated about birth control and pregnancy.  Because I have access to reasonably effective, reliable birth control.  Because I live in a city where I have access to emergency contraception in the event of rape, and good prenatal care in the event of accidental pregnancy.  Because, to me, an unplanned pregnancy would be inconvenient and perhaps a little awkward to explain to my conservative employers, but it would not require me to give up an education or a career or other opportunities.

There are personal reasons and spiritual reasons and all manner of other reasons, but what really matters?  Two things:

1.  That I have the right and legal protection to make whatever my choice might be, with the guidance of a trusted physician, and receive safe, legal, reasonably priced healthcare.

2.  That I understand that no part of my personal reasoning for whether or not I would choose to terminate a pregnancy has any bearing whatsoever on the decisions another woman might make.

In Texas right now, laws are being passed to deny women the right to terminate a pregnancy after 20 weeks.  Many proponents of these laws say "Well, isn't five months enough time to decide?"

You know what?  Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't.  Maybe a woman's just found out she and her husband are carriers for a potentially devastating disease.  Maybe she's escaping an abusive relationship and knows her ex will use a custody fight to keep stalking her if she has the baby.  Maybe she's got erratic periods and she didn't find out she was pregnant until her fifth month, and she's been taking medicines that cause birth defects the whole time.

And maybe, just maybe, nothing in that last paragraph matters because a woman seeking an abortion at any time, for any reason, does not need to justify it to me or to anyone else.  Maybe there should only have to BE two people in that room when the choice is made, and one of them should be the patient and the other should be the doctor.  Maybe we should trust women to know their lives, and their needs, and their capabilities, far better than any other person would know them, and make their decisions accordingly.  Maybe we should assume that a woman considering an abortion has already talked to her partner, her mother, her spiritual advisor, her therapist, or anyone else whose input she feels is important to the decision, and does not need a governmental mandate to do so.

A lot of people say "If you don't have a uterus, you don't have a right to an opinion on abortion."  I disagree absolutely.  We all, every one of us, have the right to that opinion, and the right to speak it freely, and I think that as long as we can do so respectfully, we have an obligation to speak our minds freely.  I believe that a clear and open discussion of the moral and ethical issues surrounding sexuality, pregnancy, abortion, and parenthood is long overdue in this country because we'll never stop using shame and fear to control sexuality until we can have those conversations openly and without judgment.

What we don't have?  The right to turn opinion into law.  The right to assume there is a common religious morality that should direct legislation.  We don't have the right to assume our choices are a universal ideal and judge or shame those who don't fit it.  We don't have the right to claim a moral high ground we do not actually hold, and deny essential healthcare funding (and access) in a perversion of 'Christian values'.  We don't have the right to establish rules regarding when others should have 'made up their minds' or whether someone's reasons are 'good enough'.

There are dozens of reasons a woman might end a pregnancy, and dozens of reasons she might not.  I refuse to split hairs, to even engage in the act of finding 'defensible abortions' that justify why a woman might have a 'reasonable' explanation for it.  I say, absolutely, that it does not matter to me that another woman might choose differently than I might.  It matters to me that both of us are given equal respect and freedom to make those choices, and equal care and opportunity to carry out our choices in the way that is healthiest for all concerned.

In Which I Advocate for Domestic Partnership

Almost everyone I know is currently up in arms about gay marriage.  It's understandable; a substantial portion of the American population is being denied basic civil rights on a flimsy 'moral' pretext.

The argument as to whether homosexuality is moral or immoral is relevant to the social and personal treatment of gays, but it should be irrelevant to law.  Law is not, contrary to popular belief, derived from a moral argument.  It's derived from an ethical agreement we participate in as a society.  Things are not illegal because they are 'wrong' on a moral level.  In a pluralistic society, things should be illegal because they're detrimental to the social order, not because they're in opposition to a theological position.

Civil rights are not detrimental to the social order.  Equality is not detrimental to the social order.  If you give everyone the same rights and privileges under the law, it creates a more stable system, not a less stable one.  Greater social stability is an inherent benefit to those who live within a society, so long as it doesn't prevent the growth and progress of that society.  Any expansion of civil rights encourages the growth and progress of a society.

Marriage equality is a complex issue, and one that affects me on a number of levels.  As a non-Christian, I object to living under the assumption of 'Christian morality'.  As a straight ally, I see my friends and loved ones denied a basic right I enjoy simply because my sexual preference is more palatable to a certain segment of the population.  And as a clergyperson, I have to wrestle with the issue of whether or not I will perform heterosexual marriages when I can't legally solemnize same-sex ones.

The first two are larger social problems, but the last can be viewed as a matter of contracts.  Ultimately, what I've come to consider is that I should give up my power to confer legal status on anyone, straight or gay.  When I perform a wedding, it should be solely a spiritual and social ceremony, with no legal standing at all.  I believe that clergy should play a simple role, managing the rites and rituals of community life.  But I believe that ultimately, the only way to maintain a proper separation of church and state is to create two separate elements to marriage.

The first element is the social and spiritual one, the ceremony before community in which consenting adults swear oaths to one another by whatever they hold sacred, oaths that create no legal obligation.  This element of a wedding confers a social standing upon the participants, by which those who share similar values can recognise that these people have made promises to one another.  It creates a moral obligation, but no connection under the law.  I feel, as a priestess, that I am qualified to perform these ceremonies because I intimately understand the structures of oath and obligation, the social fabric of community that makes that ritual meaningful.

The second aspect of marriage is the legal contract.  It creates a connection under law, a set of obligations with fiscal and legal ramifications, and a set of privileges that affect property transfer, parental rights, healthcare decisions, and financial standing.  The set of promises entailed in civil marriages all relate to simple contract law, and should be handled as such by a state-appointed official well-versed in contracts, estate law, tax policy, and property rights.  As a priestess, I am not an expert on contract law, and am not best qualified to legitimize that relationship.

I propose a complete severance between the aspects of marriage, that the clergy be left unmolested to perform any marriage they choose:  man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, three or more people.  In cases where one party is unable to legally consent (age, mental incapacity), clergy marriage shouldn't provide protection to the relationship (if you find a priest to marry you to a twelve-year-old girl, "she's my wife" should not protect you from statutory rape), but otherwise there should be no legal restrictions on who can be married in such a ceremony.

In tandem with this, any domestic partnership should be required to undergo a civil contract registry to obtain the rights, privileges, and legal standing available to married persons.  Any number of consenting adults can sign a contract, provided all signatories agree to the terms.  You can be married all you like, but without a domestic registry the state recognises nothing about your union.  Each state has a standard set of rights and privileges associated with marriage, and a simple "John Doe and Jane Smith agree to enter into a domestic partnership according to the laws of (state) with no exceptions," contract would cover most marriages, and those with more complex relationships are free to seek legal counsel to codify the terms of their marriage contract, just as a couple can seek legal advice for a prenuptial agreement now.

Most suggestions of 'domestic partnership' offer a 'separate but equal' dodge around marriage equality, creating a second tier of 'almost the same' to be offered to gays and lesbians, but that creates a second-class marital status.  Pure equality under the law requires, ultimately, that only the law determine who has a legal standing.

This involves me giving up a power I currently hold under law, but I've been feeling a growing conflict with that power for some time.  I am not qualified to advise on the legal ramifications of contract marriage, and if I am truly taking the responsibility of officiating weddings seriously, I should be able to intelligently explain to everyone involved the full ramifications of the thing we are doing together.

In Which I Hope We Have Enough Warriors

There have been, of late, too many tragedies like Newtown or Aurora.  Each one provokes a predictable round of conversations that flare quickly briefly, the national dialogue of "We must do something to control these guns" met by "responsible gun owners save lives" met by "shouldn't there be some limitations on gun ownership" met by Constitutional arguments, a whirling round of binary posturing that spins down into obscurity after a few weeks as other media horrors capture our attention.

Relatively recently, this mix has begun to include pleas for reform or at least expansion of our mental healthcare system, calls for better diagnosis and treatment of the sort of severe mental illness we imagine to be required for someone to fire a gun into a crowded theatre or classroom, or pilot his airplane into an office building -- because it's unthinkable that anyone besides a complete madman would do such a thing.

On all sides, there's a tremendous amount of political haymaking, with everyone certain he or she can find the magic solution in a law, a funding decision, the presence or absence of a deity in our public lives, that will resolve all of this, and insisting that solution be implemented to the exclusion of all others.

What I see precious little of, however, is evolution in our cultural dialogue on violence, on our shift from the narrative of the Warrior to the narrative of unbridled vengeance.

When I was a young girl, I watched a lot of movies.  I remember Red Dawn and Back to the Future and Goonies.  There seemed to be a tone, in much of the media I consumed, that said, "Yes, there are bullies and enemies and they are horrible people, but the little guy can stand up, and he can PUNCH that bully right in the nose, and the bully will leave him alone."  These were narratives of the Warrior:  if you are strong and brave and kind, if you fight for yourself and your loved ones, you can overcome those who would abuse or exploit you.  We had Han Solo and the Last Starfighter, who took on fights they could have abandoned, because they made a conscious choice to stand for the right.

I was inoculated with the culture of the Warrior, and it still resonates within me.  Somewhere, though, we started to be embarrassed, to consider the idea passe and hokey.  We found different icons:  The Crow, Thelma and Louise, avatars of wrath and vengeance.  We began to see a broad cultural shift in motivation, from protecting our loved ones and standing for what's right, to retribution and being the self-appointed right hand of karma.

The narrative of vengeance, of the man who's had too much and snaps, isn't new.  One need only look at Taxi Driver to see it.  The difference is that older narratives treat the descent into vengeance as a horror, a brutal depravity.  Batman Begins, on the other hand, a plot line fueled on all sides by revenge and retribution, is a glorious and lovingly crafted symphony of beautiful explosions, car chases, and gadgets.

Don't get me wrong; I love Batman Begins, and I own it on DVD.  But when I watch it, I find myself viewing it through the lens of the Warrior my childhood left behind.  I don't want to *be* that Batman, a dark hero despised by the people he has chosen to stand for, whose civic duty is tinged with a contempt and bitterness for the people unlucky enough to deserve a hero like him.  I have defenses against it, but I worry that we don't all have those defenses.  I worry that if we're raised on a diet of vengeance and violence, we lose the capacity to choose to use force responsibly. If we lose the heart of the Warrior, then we lose something precious that I believe we need very much.

I do have a certain amount of hope, though.  In every moment of tragedy, I have heard of heroes.  Stories of teachers who risked their lives at Columbine to lead students to safety.  Names like Liviu Librescu, the Holocaust survivor who died holding off the Virginia Tech gunman while his students fled.  Stories of first responders in Aurora, pushing towards the theatre to rescue the wounded, not sure if the gunman was still inside.  Kaitlin Roig, who sheltered those under her care, asked them to be brave with her, and spoke words of loving compassion to children she believed were about to die with her, so that the last things they heard would be, "It's going to be OK" and "I love you" instead of gunfire.  Those are Warriors' hearts.

Into the Murrah Building, into the twin towers, to the front of Flight 93, people ran towards danger to help those in need, to defend the innocent, to save loved ones.  Every day, around the world, people from all walks of life, teachers and firefighters and computer programmers and nurses and soldiers and retail clerks are given chances to stand up and choose love in the face of danger, oppression, ignorance, and hate.  Fewer, now, choose the path of the Warrior, and those that do risk ridicule or dismissal, but we can change that.

If you would stem the tide of violence, by all means advocate for better gun control and better mental health care and better protections or police patrols or whatever other concrete means you believe will effect that change.  But beyond that, do what you can to remind yourself and those around you of the importance of Warriors.  Forget the names of those who took up arms to seek vengeance, who lashed out in maddened hate and fury against a world they believed had wronged them personally.  Let them fall into obscurity, and remember instead the names of those who stood against them in courage, compassion and love.