Mixed Messages
On my way up the 101 freeway, here in my little homey town of Camarillo, California, I was undeservedly flipped off by a very young-looking male driver at the helm of an older station wagon.
The gesture caught me off guard, for moments before I was admiring this car's two bumper stickers: one being a blue rectangle displaying (in artfully rendered characters) the word "Coexist," the other being a partially torn one touting the car owner's support for presidential hopeful Bernie Sanders.
Was he driving his parents' car? He was young, maybe 17, it was hard to tell seeing as he was in my field of vision for a mere 10 seconds. And what did I even do to deserve the offensive gesture he had just delivered to me?
Just prior to the finger raising, I was thinking to myself briefly, "What a kind- hearted, empathetic driver this must be; and, "Right on, dude."
What the hell did I do unbeknownst to myself? I was left thinking, "Is this kid a jerk, or am I that out of it to have done something "to" him while driving that would justify his gesture to me? It was all just very strange.
Friday, September 29, 2017
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Church, 8/6/17
I went to church on August 6th, 2017. That would have been Dad's 84th B-day. It's my mom's church, Chapel City, in Old Town Camarillo. It was my first time going to church is about a year.
I often drive my mother to church but I don't stay for the service. The reason we went this time (my mom, my two daughters and I) was because my mom and I thought it would be good to show our foreign exchange student Kurumi (a 15 year old girl from Japan) a Western style church service so she could hear the music and see the people rejoicing and praying, how they were dressed, the ages and diverse make up of the congregation, etcetera.
I know some of my mom's church friends so as we entered the "fellowship hall" I saw familiar faces, many of them greeting my mom, happy to see her attending since her health can be unstable, unpredictable. She is such a well-liked lady!
During the service, I couldn't help but jot down observations, and all I had was this tiny little three by 2 inch scrap of paper that I procured from the slot in the wooden pew in front of me, but I wrote about liking the solemnity, the quiet contemplation, the stillness of the service. It felt nice to reflect, to have all of these people reflect, to sing, to reconnect with some part of myself that's usually pushed aside by business and movement. I liked the little sounds of people chewing their tiny corners of crackers as they all took communion together. I liked that I saw Sandra Yip, a homeschool writing teacher, there. I can always talk books with her. She is smart and kind and I always enjoy talking to her. I didn't know she went to that church.
I liked the pacing of the pastor's speech, his volume was just right and he came off as sincere and practiced. SO all of my initial observations were positive until the sermon became focused on Jesus washing peoples' feet. I realize this was an important event in biblical history as it illustrated Jesus' willingness to place himself at the same level as the common folk, but the topic was revisited over and over and explained in so many different ways that the phrase "beating a dead horse" kept coming to my mind, and the voice of the pastor began to drag on, and the sound of his voice put me in a trance that was hypnotizing me into sleep. I had to consciously try with all my might to stay awake.
I'd be willing to attend again with the high hopes that the next sermon would consist of content that was more varied and less relaxing.
I often drive my mother to church but I don't stay for the service. The reason we went this time (my mom, my two daughters and I) was because my mom and I thought it would be good to show our foreign exchange student Kurumi (a 15 year old girl from Japan) a Western style church service so she could hear the music and see the people rejoicing and praying, how they were dressed, the ages and diverse make up of the congregation, etcetera.
I know some of my mom's church friends so as we entered the "fellowship hall" I saw familiar faces, many of them greeting my mom, happy to see her attending since her health can be unstable, unpredictable. She is such a well-liked lady!
During the service, I couldn't help but jot down observations, and all I had was this tiny little three by 2 inch scrap of paper that I procured from the slot in the wooden pew in front of me, but I wrote about liking the solemnity, the quiet contemplation, the stillness of the service. It felt nice to reflect, to have all of these people reflect, to sing, to reconnect with some part of myself that's usually pushed aside by business and movement. I liked the little sounds of people chewing their tiny corners of crackers as they all took communion together. I liked that I saw Sandra Yip, a homeschool writing teacher, there. I can always talk books with her. She is smart and kind and I always enjoy talking to her. I didn't know she went to that church.
I liked the pacing of the pastor's speech, his volume was just right and he came off as sincere and practiced. SO all of my initial observations were positive until the sermon became focused on Jesus washing peoples' feet. I realize this was an important event in biblical history as it illustrated Jesus' willingness to place himself at the same level as the common folk, but the topic was revisited over and over and explained in so many different ways that the phrase "beating a dead horse" kept coming to my mind, and the voice of the pastor began to drag on, and the sound of his voice put me in a trance that was hypnotizing me into sleep. I had to consciously try with all my might to stay awake.
I'd be willing to attend again with the high hopes that the next sermon would consist of content that was more varied and less relaxing.
Monday, August 7, 2017
Clean Up
8/7/17 This morning, on my jog, I covered a fresh pile of dog shit with a large piece of tree bark. It was in the trails my family and I walk in and was horrified at the thought of one of us - or a complete stranger - stepping in any portion of it. When I jogged by the shit 10 minutes later, someone had moved the bark but left the shit, making it once again a threat to innocent passers by. I walked by it but five minutes later made the decision to walk out of my way to get one of those little green dog poo bags to collect the droppings and dispose of them the way that dog's owner should have. I got the shit, and as I walked home with it, the little knotted bag swaying back and forth in my grasp, I felt like I'd done a very good deed.
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