This week's Five Star Friday is brought to you by a mother's intolerance, a Christian who isn't intolerant, self-acceptance and teaching our children, a childhood in Scientology, reaching out through the void, and Cheryl Strayed:
One thing any backpacker will tell you is that it's tedious and monotonous. You're bored sometimes, so you really have to make the fun in your head.
— Cheryl Strayed
Let the weekly roundup of good blog writing begin. Happy Friday!
You know what's always tricky for me? I'm in the middle, right? I mean, I grew up with Christians and I have Christian friends and I believe in the foundational powerful gospel of Christ. But if I say what I think, I'm attacked by them. And if I don't say what I think, I'm not serving you (and so many others) like I think I should. I guess I'm kind of screaming, finally, by writing this to you. When I imagine Christians directing their arguments toward me in response to the beliefs I'm writing about here, I want to tell them, first of all, this...
I don't know if I can undo what's been done to me. I'm trying. Some part of me must believe it's possible. Please believe me that I'm trying. I don't know if I can ever unravel the years of negativity and abuse I've endured at my own hands, and at the hands of a society that wants to keep me small and quiet, that wants me to buy a version of me that they're selling.
I do know, though, that there are mountains I can move for my children.
" by Stella Forstner at
I was about the age Suri Cruise is now when I had my first session. Mickey, my first-grade teacher at the non-traditional school I attended, had announced that day that he would soon be leaving for a new job somewhere in California. All I remember now of Mickey is his warmth, and his soft, crinkly eyes and thick black beard, but the day he made his announcement, I was devastated in the way only a six-year-old can be — someone I loved was leaving me! The world had turned cruel. I trudged home to my mother, sobbing, and though I'm not sure who brought up the idea first, I knew a session was just what I needed.
"I hope that this conversation has offered you something good. I hope that in the days and weeks to come, something will happen or a call will come and you'll think of my sons and me and this all make some sense."
"Why do you hope that?" she asked, resigned, a little bit bitter. A LOT angry.
"Because," interrupted an older man, sitting quietly nearby with his wife, cradling a coffee in his hand, "Because you have lost love. Hope's all you've got left."
We live in a third-floor walk-up in Uptown surrounded by other third-floor walk-ups. Jumping onto a neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal isn’t much of a stretch, so perhaps the fact that I could toggle between babies shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was. It was huge. I was obsessed. On one hand, it was totally creepy — stalking, even — but on the other? It was sort of magical, like walkie-talkies and CB radios when you’re a kid: connecting with someone across the void, adding your voice to the collective unconscious, feeling less alone in this crazy world, and who knows who might be listening?
Who knows who’s in that Uptown condo on channel B?
A baby, to be sure, but it wasn’t the baby I was obsessed with.
It was the mother.
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