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Dear Stars:

Rock stars.  Or rap stars?  TV stars.  And movie stars.  Young-stars (and youngsters). My stars (My stars!).  But really, my “stars”, too (that is, regarding my FATE).

I was a star once!  Or, I thought so.  I was young, too.  I had my future ahead of me.  I wasn’t a star, maybe.  But I could have been a star.  I could have been anything.  Right?

And yet, here I am writing to you.  A tragedy?  I was a star, a falling star.  I wished upon a star.  And I fell.  I went through my youth like a comet streaking through space.  But I burned out.

I thought I knew you, then.  I don’t think I know you now.  When I was like you, if only in my mind, I knew you.  And now that I’m not…

Do you wish me well or despise me?  I would despise me if I were you!  Or, maybe, you were like me once?  But wouldn’t you rather forget?  I see you pretend:  And I “thank” you (Like you “thank” your fans? “Thank me.  Thank me!” you say to yourself).  Well, that’s how I thank you, too!

I can’t think about you sometimes.  If I start to say something bad about you, I can’t.  I can’t even remember your name.  Or I mispronounce it, deliberately.  I turn your name into a joke.  Not because you are a joke.  Because you are NOT a joke.  I can’t think bad things about you and so I turn your name into a joke to forget it (for a moment).  I do this when I don’t forget it, otherwise, like…

Like people forget dentist’s appointments?  Like people forget how it feels to be sick when they’re well again?  No, like people forget answers to a test they studied for.  Or like people forget how to address a king in his presence (Your Honor? Your Majesty? Your Royal Highness?). I hem and haw because I want to remember.  And I forget.

And I’m ashamed.  I’m ashamed in your imaginary presence.  I’m ashamed of my clothes.  I’m ashamed of my house.  I’m ashamed…  I’m modest (in appearance).  I’m humble (because humiliated because human).  I’m embarrassed (when I come up short).  Here, I’m mean (average).  There! I become poor (in spirit / in health).  Until finally, I’m sorry (as such, a sorry person).

Repent!  I’m sorry…  I want mercy…  I want pity….  I want peace…..  I want your “used to’s” and your “thank you’s” (be they what they are).  And I want confidence (said in confidence).  Come privelege!  Come sanctuary!

You sing (or dance, or tell a joke).  And I forgive you:  Forgive and forget.  But sometimes I remember:  My youth, a high-school play.  I’m a star again!  I’m proud.  I’m rich.  I have the whole world at my feet and my whole life before me.  I can go anywhere.  I can be anyone.  I can be…

Just,

Anyone

My dad served many years as a hospice chaplain. He had a real heart for ministering to people who were living in the shadows of death….. He decided to write down the lessons he had learned form the different patients he had worked with over the years. He published a book titled, Lessons from the Shadows of Death. Just like his first book, Blind Faith, this book was never sold to the public, although he did have a web-site for a while where he tried.

Lessons from the Shadows of Death.

The writing is very good.  The stories are unique.  The author had a chance to get to know these people.  Then they died.  He was able to convey through his writing their stories and more.  He was able to convey something of their life… a life expressed most concisely in “the shadows of death”.

I get it.  I agree.  These people are put to a final test.  Their faith (or lack of faith) becomes evident.  What they have hoped for is contrasted against what they have accomplished.  And in the final telling (seems always so), their dreams are fulfilled but not in the way they imagined.

Their dreams are fulfilled through the peace of eternal rest.  Or they are remembered by friends and family.  Or perhaps, the message becomes one of their culture and how the lives they lived are reflected in the way their community reacts to their passing.

A party.  A sing along.  Being buried on their own property.  They have a Chaplin to help them cope.  Some come to terms with God.  Some pass alone.  One even comes back to life (a “miracle” says her country relatives)!

But all of them die.  Even the author.  So, in spite of the “hope”.  I leave the site depressed. I think this site is most appropriate for those who are coping with death.  So, read the short chapters in small doses.  And there’s something “untimely” (Ironic.  That word is often used to describe death, too):

The chapters are updated weekly (give or take).  But the book was written years ago.  Strange, then, to see this book written in installments — specifically in “blog” form (since a blog is a journal and journals are more like daily diaries).  Nonetheless, I think it works.

A journey to a simpler place.  And one where the rules of time still hold.  But, maybe, the rules are applied differently there than here.  And maybe that is “the lesson”.

Artificial Intelligence: the art of making computers that behave like the ones in movies

Bill Bulko

Chrysanthemum Chrysanthemum morifolium red brown

Positive qualities: Shifting the ego identification from one’s personality to a higher spiritual identity; feeling oneself as transpersonal and transcendent.

Hamida the Herbalist

Science or Superstition

What a strange mix of science, medicine, religion, and superstition!  Hamida switches spiritual traditions like an insect buzzing from one flower to another.  First it’s A.A., then Bhudism, then Wicca… now referring to god as He, and then She, and finally even IT!  Interspersed are recipies for balms, salves, and sprays.  And with each article there’s a photo of a plant (perhaps) along with it’s scientific name.

Individual or Universal

Hamida starts with a personal story of “tragedy”.  Example:  “I have been experiencing this as a problem with my balance and by having many small accidents around the house and garden, such as stubbing my toes constantly.”  He / She generalizes this to some sort of human condition:  “Many people are going through major changes such as losing jobs, having to move after years in one place, financial difficulties, deaths, illness and separation.”  Then s/he makes some sort of psychic prediction: “Attending to everyday tasks with attention and care, can move us out of a negative space and give us peace.”

• The anecdotes provide a sense of warmth and
• …add a personal touch to the site.
• I’m intrigued by the advice.
• I find the photos charming.
• The science stimulates my more practical side and
• ..the spirituality nurtures my soul.

The recipies, themselves, are a rare find and they, alone, would make the site worth frequenting.

Underlying this there seems to be a subtle but constant pitch for the oils and essences sold in her own “Etsy” store.  Though you might prefer to drift off into Meme land and discover “What flower are you” (Both featured in the sidebar).  Finally, read some of the comments:  Her visitors seem just as interested and knowledgable about which smells cure which spiritual maladies as she is!

We all know that art is not the truth, art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.

Pablo Picasso
Spanish Cubist painter (1881 - 1973)