Dysphoria by wysewomon

I didn’t plan to write this post on National Coming Out Day. I didn’t plan to write it at all. But I have thoughts, and you know where that leads me. After I published the post “U…

Source: Dysphoria

Until Then, I will Sit

stadium-seatsI did it. I sat through the presentation of colors, the invocation and the national anthem at a local high school game. I sat, because I love the country I live in. As much as I love it, I am bothered by so much of what I see. I am also bothered by what I see as a near compulsory demand for an adherence to ritual while failing to truly understand, that for many Americans, such rituals ring hollow. It is for them, after much contemplation that I sat.

I sat for the people of Flint, for whom profit mattered more than safe drinking water, for the residents Standing Rock for similar reasons. I sat for those serving long term sentences for minor drug charges while those who commit violent crimes go free. The injustice, often along color lines is an ongoing injustice. Even worse, profit comes into play, when we as a people care more about the bottom line more than our neighbors, I find silent and complacent is something I cannot be. So for those who suffer at the hands of corporate interests,  I sat.

I sat for the victims of war…the men and women sent to fight for ideology and control of resources than ignored and abandoned when they got home, damaged, broken, hurting. For all the rhetoric about support for our troops, I find there is less substance than we are led to believe. We spend so much for the tools of war, yet the most important ones, the people we send into harms way, our nation invests so little. We’ve been in some kind of conflict for so long, that a time of true peace, is an unknown.

We send our sons and daughters, expecting them to set everything aside, celebrating what we believe is their patriotic duty to be cogs in the mechanics of war, and we rarely question why.. I am reminded of  Walt Whitman’s Drum Taps. The poem talks about the festive celebratory air that often occurs when we prepare for war. There is a line that says: 

The tearful parting—the mother kisses her son—the son kisses his mother;  
(Loth is the mother to part—yet not a word does she speak to detain him;)

Whitman proved to be quite prophetic in the lines of his poem as we prepared to invade Iraq and Afghanistan. How many mothers and sons never got to tell each other hello again since?  It is for this poignant reasons, that I hate the dark arts of war. We celebrate war through our patriotic rituals, yet rarely stop to count the cost. It is because I feel that the price is too high, that I sat.

I sat for every homeless child, every person working three jobs to make enough to feed their families, for everyone who is a victim of violence, for every person who has been subjected to the hatred of bigotry and racism, and every person who must decide which to pay, rent or medical bills. I sat for every person who came here for a chance for their future and for that of their children, fearful that they will be denied it for lack of a piece of paper. I sat for those denied that chance to even try to come here because they are from the “wrong country” or of the the “right religious persuasion. 

I, a white, middle aged grandmother, made a simple patriotic choice and went against the crowd.  I am of the mind that we can truly be a country that understands what freedom means, that it is a responsibility, an honor, a purpose, and that we are only free when all of us can be equally so. Until then I will sit.

From Those We Give Power 

“Hear our words.” Cry those we’ve given power.

“Hear our message divinely evoked.

We’re the ones you picked to lead forward.

Listen closely, heed the wisdom we speak.”


“Heed not.” The empowered sternly warn us.

“Those who dare question the gospel we preach.

Dismiss with all malice, any message that differs

or actions that would cause you to think.”


“Stand against” Warn the despots who lead us.

“Quell against all we’re against.

We’re the ones who’s words always matter

Especially when they are speaking the truth.”


“Enemy!” Is the clarion call.

When compassionate dissension

suggests peaceful solutions

and threatens to shatter control, tightly held.


“Attack and destroy.” The leaders command.

“Any who would stand in our way.

We’re in control, don’t ever forget that

Now go, and do what we say.”


“It’s your fault.” Wail the once august leaders.

“Look at the destruction you wrought.

You failed us, and left us bereft.

Take the blame, as you justly deserve.


Silence from those we gave power

Gone, those we foolishly ignored

We are left to pick up the pieces

Of a world we nearly destroyed.








My eyes fly through words.

Speed reading dyslexia

Makes reading more fun.

While We Weep


weepWe learn again of yet another tragedy
Of one who combined hatred, violence and guns.
We are helpless in anger and in sorrow,
looking for answers.

While we weep.
While we weep.

How many must we bury before we say enough,
While we blame anything but the true causes of hate?
How can we dismiss the solutions for peaceful coexistence,
Ignoring them?

While we weep.
While we weep.

We’ve turned our fear of others get into an addiction
And consumed divisive calls of pundits, cleric, priest
Guiltless we are not, of these senseless tragedies.
Can we find remorse?

While we weep
While we weep.

How do we begin the task of ceasing hatred using love?
Why does it seem at times, so impossible a task?
We, as a people, a nation a species must learn the way.
To save ourselves.

While we weep
While we weep


2016-06-05 20.04.12Who would have thought that the simple task of painting one’s own toenails would give a stark reminder that not only you not as young as you once were, but what little flexibility, dexterity and visual acuity you had been lost along with your restraint when using profanity. I just discovered that, by not only trying to put polish only on my toe nails, but going for broke and trying to paint a simple tricolor design on them.

What was I thinking?

My first problem is that my toes are now too damned far away. I can get closer to my left foot than my right, thanks to spinal damage. If I try to paint by sitting and bending over, then my slowly….oh so slowly shrinking  food baby and its matching middle-aged grandma double chin, gets in the way. I still  can get a foot up onto the bathroom counter. It’s not pretty and my hips bitch and moan the whole time, but I avoid curved obstructions easier that way. Then I have to tackle issue #2.

I’ve never been all that coordinated. In fact I readily admit that I do lack a coordination gene. I can stumble over thought, and fall down over the ghost of pebbles turned to sand.  I drop everything, pens, glasses, my phone, my food.  If its in my hand, an item’s remaining there for the time allotted is in peril. I also have learned that my artistic skills are best left to crude stick figures, and coloring books. The act of painting polish neatly onto a nail is beyond my skill set. And I was professionally trained! Or at least they tried. I can make either a single color that I wait to dry, then pick off all the overage, or a beautiful mess, with more than one color. Which is caused in part by #3.

I have had horrible myopia since third grade. I can now wear contacts to mostly correct my distance vision, but then a couple of years ago, my close vision decided to take a trip just a bit further than the length of my arm. Ironically, I can see perfectly, if my contacts are out, and any object is no more than five inches from my face. Readers, I now own 4, help with closer activities, like  reading, computer work, texting, Facebook. But there is this no clear vision zone. That is the closest I can get my feet to paint my toes. That means I am painting tiny little dots of nail, in a blur.

If I wasn’t so darned independent and very ticklish I’d get  daughter to paint my toes for me, or rope my darling spouse into it. But not today. Today, I;m just waiting for my brightly colored mess to dry.





Pileated_Woodpecker_m57-4-021_l_1A woodpecker jackhammers for her breakfast

I microwave mine.

I listen to her impassioned rhythm

While I stumble towards the bath.

She begins her day with a song.

Mine? Ten more minutes. please.

Flitting from tree to tree, she hunts for food.

While coffee brews in leisure.

Woodpeckers don’t seem to have bad days.

Unlike most of us.

Mistaking the neighbor’s gutter for wood doesn’t seem to bother her

I wouldn’t take it near as well.

Simple is the life of Lady Woodpecker,

The original headbanger

Rat-a-tat-tats of a small bird, remind me

To take to heart

The simple task of enthusiasm.