TL Boehm - Writer

Written in my heart

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On Toxic Positivity

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on May 17, 2019 at 10:55 AM Comments comments (0)

 

I woke up this morning at 2:00 with a knot in my gut and a roaring headache. After slamming a glass of water and popping a couple of Bayer I flopped around in my bed until I was able to get myself in a position where the banging sensation in my skull would allow me to sleep just a little longer. It’s almost 12 hours and several aspirins later and still the monster in my cranium bangs away. God only knows what causes the little brain gremlins to rage as they do but they are much more frequent than when I was in the land of green chile and tumbleweeds. Could be stress. Could be pollen. (my car was literally yellow the past two days. Yellow and fuzzy.) Whatever it is, headaches make the commute almost intolerable and the work day a serious ordeal. I truly miss being 15 minutes away from an office with a window and green chile breakfast burritos en route.

 

 

 

I read this article the other day by a woman named June Andrews and she used the term “toxic positivity” which has stuck with me (much like the fat around my middle from all those burritos) and I thought of the multiple days I’ve risen to prepare for my daily routine, asking only that I be afforded time and space void of banalities and chatter only deal with the matriarch as she knocks on the bathroom door, asks me where I work, stands exactly where I need to be to pack a lunch etc. Then there is the hour commute peppered with road construction and Nascar wannabes, the day at the office which is like no other office I’ve ever experienced, the hour commute home and the instant I get in the door – the matriarch goes on some type of loop. It sounds trivial. I know it does. But I am a private person. An only child. An introvert. And I have no control of my personal space and my time. Add dementia to the mix and often it is so difficult for me to put my hand over my mouth and walk away, especially when some well intended type tries to spin the reality of it all with trite isms like “it’s only a season” yada yada yada.

 

 

 

The hard truth of it is this: dementia takes the personality and the memory of the person you love and shreds it. One day your beloved is baking cookies and telling stories about her family and the next she’s trying to eat a napkin and swearing that the girl who sleeps with her wet the sheets. (sidebar: the sheets were dry and the matriarch sleeps alone) The hard truth is you either deal with it – and what it does to the person you love or you turn that person over to “the professionals” because you can’t deal with it. And you watch as any legacy that beloved person may have worked and sacrificed for YOU is eaten by the cost of professional care.

 

 

 

What I know in my heart is that we are slowly, inexorably saying goodbye to the matriarch. And she is slowly being robbed of the ability to deal with her own mortality, to say goodbye as well or even navigate her increasingly difficult world because we as her caregivers have to impose restrictions to protect her from herself and the shredder in her head. We don’t need a smile and an eight step plan. We need real knowledge. We need additional pairs of hands. We need access to professionals who won’t burden us further with medical bills. That is our reality.

 

 

 

I would never tell anyone going through the loss of a loved one that he or she just needed to be positive and that it was wrong to run a gamut of emotions. I don’t expect those who know me to tell me that. Dementia is a wrecking ball colliding with a stained glass window…in….slow….motion. The pieces, even if the colors are still pretty – will never go back together. And the family shouldn’t be guilted into silence while witnessing the destruction. We aim to protect her dignity but to lie and say that our positive attitudes and our sunny dispositions are what keeps us moving forward is a lie. Life is brutal. Love is messy. And I? I am a warrior.

 

 

 

Peace.

 

 

Phlegm, Just phlegm

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on May 16, 2019 at 10:50 AM Comments comments (0)

So here I am after an interminable hiatus and you’d think I’d come

 

back poignant, eloquent and gracious as my advancing age would

 

suggest. About that. If you ever read me you know that’s an

 

expectation too lofty for THIS page. Although, I do have a heart and

 

it’s been on said heart to post something, anything for several

 

months. I’m a writer. I’m never at a loss for words, but I am at a

 

giant deficit for time. Again, if you ever read me – specifically my

 

intermittent screams into the void since December 2015, you know a bit

 

about my situation. If you are blissfully unaware, and you return to

 

this humble page, you’ll learn quickly.

 

 

I started my morning at two a.m. today. I’m female, 54 and have had

 

two bundles of joy/terror/love and the bladder – while I believe in

 

her – is ornery and has been disrupting my beauty sleep (and it shows)

 

for a few years but now she is engaging other parts of my digestive

 

tract which resulted in me rifling through my grown son’s stash of

 

bathroom goodies in a hunt for the Imodium. If the steadfastness of

 

the containment field around those blue gels is any indicator of their

 

ability to wrangle what’s gurgling in my gut – the bladder will be a

 

solo act for days.

 

 

Why the overshare? Well, at a time in my life when I and the HOH

 

should be falling asleep at nine whilst binging on Netflix and

 

Traverse City cherry Ice c ream in our empty nest – we are in fact

 

displaced, relegated to one bedroom and sharing the only toilet in the

 

house that is not ours with our offspring and a spouse, a grand

 

toddler and a 90+ year old who is struggling with dementia. Toilet

 

time is a precious commodity and those of us who can control our

 

innards MUST control our innards in deference to those who can’t. Yes,

 

we volunteered to take on the care of our matriarch. We expected

 

sacrifices. Toilet time though, well? It’s complicated.

 

 

And so here I am, aching to discuss the deeper things of life, the

 

philosophies and idiosyncrasies and all the other ies that make up

 

this thing called human life and I am reduced to potty talk. I just

 

want a moment with a bowl, without a knock on the door. Without having

 

to wear hazmat gear and sterilize every surface before I go. And a

 

burrito. I want a real burrito too. Not at the same time I’m indulging

 

in a bowl. I have my standards.

 

 

Anyway, I have determined that in order to preserve the last shred of

 

pre New Mexico expat me I must return to some form of regular writing

 

whether anyone reads or doesn’t. So here I am. There will be lots of

 

caveats and explanations over the next months and there probably won’t

 

be much brilliance but there will be truth. I’ve been largely silent

 

over the past years about dementia and what it really does to a soul –

 

to my detriment. Perhaps if I by my rambling help someone else – it

 

will ease the ache of knowing that while I’d love to be verbal elixir

 

– most days I’m just phlegm. Copious phlegm.

 

 

Peace.

 

 

Asking Alice

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on November 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM Comments comments (0)

 

In an effort to never repeat the start of my Monday, I dragged myself up a half hour earlier. And although the Queen must surely have a sensor on the throne because she also made use of the amenities immediately after me - she did toddle back to her bedchambers leaving me unseen and unscathed. Barring the minor altercation with the vacuum cleaner (when things that suck meet in the dark - who puts a vacuum right by the basement door?) I was able to make it to work without sobbing uncontrollably. The day is not over, however.

 

So today my brain is firing off in many directions - since I allowed myself the guilty pleasure of a diatribe yesterday and now I simply must discuss some random factoid interesting only to me and a few of the personalities residing in my brain pan. (I'm a writer. My moods are named and have their own backstories)

 

I watched this youtube bit about Lewis Carroll this Saturday - again because when one's brain is flinging itself against an eyeball and no amount of Excedrin will curb the pain - youtube is a safe distraction. I find it wrenchingly sad that another bit of my childhood has been exhumed and the grisly bits of human-ness have been put on display. We humans are so adept at vilification and turning the sacred profane. We revel in it like a dog revels in a fresh bovine dropping. What purpose does it serve to assume that a man over a century gone from this orb was a latent pedophile and that the legacy he left on paper is a series of exclamation points and underlines to illuminate this assumed truth? As if every soul who creates must also carry some form of evil that will inevitably bleed on to the creator's preferred medium? And we, the jury must, therefore, magnify that evil until it eclipses all the light in the room.

 

Alas, that which has been seen can now not be unseen and yes, the argument that Victorian society held different values for acceptable photographs of children does little to diminish the pall- the egg-washed sepia image of Alice's possible elder sibling casts on my sunny girl heart.

 

I fear I am forever consigned now to contemplate that Cheshire smile as no longer mirthsome but malevolent as another fantastical childhood sanctuary succumbs to the black hole that is adulthood. We simply cannot leave flitting dreams alone. We must pluck them until they writhe flightless and exposed to the elements - until those that survive sprout fangs and scales and consume us while we sleep.

 

There is this attempt by those who steward the effects of the brilliant but mad - the sanitizing of a soul - redacting of documents - pages cut from Carroll's journals - because we superimpose our own moral compass over the truth at any given point in time. Perhaps I will never be studied after passing from this planet because although I am occasionally creative I'm never brilliant - but I've left enough of myself and my rabid discourse scattered on the bandwidth there will be no need to scour my ramblings. And I suppose that is a good thing.

She Who Inhabits The Throne Room

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on November 13, 2017 at 9:50 AM Comments comments (0)

I'm sure you've seen it. Those lovely autumnal themed, sun-dappled shots of well-coiffed, pantsuited boomers, toned arms lovingly draped over a diminutive, smiling senior engaging in some banality all set to ambient music? Cut to some denizen of sitcoms past - also well-coiffed, regurgitating some misty-eyed vignette about "doing the right thing, when we noticed grandpa couldn't recite Pi to the 25th decimal anymore."

 

Right. The truth is more like this:

 

6:01 and shame on me for not bolting upright immediately upon the 6:00 buzzer because "click" there went the door of the only throne room in the castle. I've only been working daily since April of 2016, right? Why would I need to visit the throne room prior to my daily ablution - which I already engage in in the dungeon to free up said precious space in the only throne room.?

 

6:10 - the queen shuffles out - fully dressed and mumbling upon seeing me that I can have it now whatever it is - perhaps there is a present in the throne room?

 

6:11 - the queen is firmly planted in the small space where the exit of the castle, the great cookstove and entrance to the dungeon all conjoin and I - now requiring NO coffee cannot refrain from asking about the assorted oddities spread in front of the queen (whom I must VAULT to access the place of ablution in the dungeon) -ponder an empty toothpaste box, wadded tissue, a piece of floss, pills, pencils and torn scraps of paper bearing glyphs...

 

ME: "you're up early...again."

 

Queen: "well I have to make my list and my **** itches..." (insert gesticulations here)

 

Me - "so what are you doing today that makes you get up at six"

 

Queen "Well my dentist needs to know and then I have to get your husband to get all my pills down"

 

Me: "Your dentist does not need to know that your **** itches - and what time is your appointment?"

 

Queen: "11:30 (the rest of the sentence edited to fit the allotment of time at hand)

 

Me: "That is five hours from now. What time do I need to get up in the morning? if you are going to get up at six I don't want to be out here when you are in the way."

 

Queen: "Oh, you aren't in my way I just go sit in the living room."

 

6:36 - I'm in the car, babbling to God and crying off the eyeliner, again because in the battle of dementia versus "oh LORD I just want to be able to get up and get ready for work unbarraged" I have again failed....miserably. The husband will incur fallout. I'll text him when I get to my desk.

 

It's lunchtime now and my simple need of "45 minutes of uninterrupted time to get ready for work" has resulted in chagrin for said husband who was informed of our polite predawn convo - the Queen and I and of course I want to disown her oh and BTW - husband who shuttled the queen to her dental appointment was told said appointment was at 11. Queen told me 11:30. And this is a normal day....But it's not the Queen. It's the disease. And that is the most difficult thing to comprehend - especially on Monday morning when I am late for work because the Queen spent ten minutes in the throne room procuring floss and empty toothpaste boxes in preparation for a dental visit as is her right as Queen. There is no logic. And some days I struggle with that more than others.

 

Peace.

Hand Me A Fork, Will You?

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on August 22, 2017 at 10:45 AM Comments comments (0)

It’s been awhile. It may be another while after this post. Hard to tell. Life is messy and complex and full of moments of uberadulting and it’s been this way for years. I can’t tell you why I stopped blogging regularly. I guess I just got tired of the same old same old. It was enough to live the bull excrement. Talking about it just added a maggoty layer I couldn’t stomach any more.

 

That being said, I was rabidly composing a guest spot for my associate at Rad Writing and I realized – I miss blogging. I miss the mulling, the snarkfest, and the idiocy that meanders from brain to cyberspace. I remember over a decade ago when I posted my first entry on Y360. I wanted to develop this persona, you know. The multifaceted, enigmatic, tragic poetess. Yup. It lasted about five posts and then I launched into some inane tirade about something as mundane as soap scum tub rings and viola. I never looked back. Except for now.

 

So here I am. There are so many things on my mind of which I could blather incessantly – from the fact that once again two of my family members are gorging their lousey hides on take out pizza whilst I had to choke down quinoa and veggies because well….two hundred pounds is mortifying. Or perhaps the fact that I’ve been here two years now on the third coast and my career is officially in retrograde. Then there’s the mother in law with Alzheimers, the interminable facebook firestorms about our POTUS, (tis like the great red spot on Saturn. It’s always there, the way cool book I’m editing (wait, I’d need permission for that) or the simple fact that my husband is sitting less than a foot away from me, flipping through Youtube while stretched out on the bed because the only spot I have in the house is in the bedroom near the wifi box where my PC resides – you see, when we gave up our home to come live with the MIL – my “office” is now a desk sized spot at the foot of the bed, and our old livingroom TV is mounted right above it. There is no peace, no privacy, no opportunity for a clear thought – so they are jammed in like so much debris right behind my eyeballs.

 

So I guess I’ll just rattle about the last thing – besides the iphone scrollin’ jazz listenin husband harshing my immediate attempt at creative – the MIL and take out pizza. I work all day – I’ll refrain from details, but the MIL has been doing things the way she does things since before I was an egg and so immediately upon me getting home (oh yeah – I’m the only one working right now, because the MIL is approaching full time maintenance) we must all sit at the table and eat, and engage in pleasantries about the weather, and how good my bowl of gruel is, and we must all sit politely until everyone is finished eating. Have you ever seen the video of the porcupine eating a pumpkin? Google it please. I fear I cannot say anything else or I will devolve into a stream of Spanglish expletives. She’s a social butterfly. I’m a blood sucking arachnid. Caca pasa. So add pizza to the mix and it’s a lifesaver for my husband that the gruel requires a spoon because forks are sharp and eyeballs are soft. I must stop. Suffice it to say – dinner is problematic, and since we do it every single day there is ample opportunity for me to wish I had a roll of duct tape and a flamethrower.

 

 

 

And so it will probably go. I love my family. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But what used to keep me sane was blogging about the whole mess of ‘em. So what if my content is no more lofty than Cheetos and cornflakes. Perhaps the flavor will be familiar to you. Maybe you’ll find comfort. Maybe you’ll send a box of forks my way. Peace. I think I need to pummel the husband with the remote now.

Of Chicken Necks and Sugar Snow

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on January 17, 2016 at 9:45 AM Comments comments (0)

I saw it today. Stark aberration in my periphery. Flaccid and pale it was, like wan chicken fat under plucked skin. It blotted everything in the rear view mirror, jolting my reverie of quit snow dancing across the road, resting on quilted cover lawns and frosting happy trees with dollops of white on spruce. So many distractions in the metal box, the meandered chatter punctuated with hiccup sighs and upended sentences. Now this…my neck in all its grisly middle aged wattling display. Like roadkill on a scenic Sunday drive. I’m mortified.

 

Wrenched from my tenure of “office know it all” or at least “figure it on the fly” chick in the high desert to this lakeside time warp, this place of gravy and pitched roofs, I’m totally off my jalapeno. Gone are the adobes and red or green breakfast plates to be replaced by the Sunday tradition of one hour with the silvers and breakfast with Bob – Bob Evans that is. Amazing how rote runs a brain. An epistle, the gospel, a homily and polite pew sharing with communion wrap up – it took a full minute for anyone to register that one of our seasoned pieces of lumber was not slumbering but without breath altogether… and still so many went forward for the cup and the wafer in routine obedience.

 

Margaret asked me later “is he still gurglin’?” as though slumped over parishoners in a diabetic episode are commonplace, and sometimes a body leaves with an EMT escort. (He’s ok. At least that’s what we were told)

 

I keep looking out the bedroom window, the cascading sugary stuff glazing the scene framed by mauve curtains and punctuated by the few stoic sparrows too resolute or stupid to fly south to green paradise. I’m grooveless unpressed vinyl still waiting for the imprint of music. A rhythm above the chatter both inside my head and outside.

 

I’m a quiet creature - at least I crave the solitude and peace and I am diametrically opposed therefore to the queen of this house who savors light and movement and the noise of constant conversation. She’s been more than kind to open her home to us and I’m sure it’s difficult to have scuttling creatures in your home who prefer the sunless corners, the basement, the predawn holy places where nothing moves except the snow before the plow to the endless drone of voices. She’s flown solo in this house for nine years. Now it’s full of people who make no noise, no decibel print and it must be irksome to her.

 

I try to compromise, to curb my urge to run from the meal table and kill the myriad things that wait in my personal life. The bills, the bank issues – who knew our financial institution was unrepresented in this chile-less place? Who knew everything cost twice as much as it does way out west? Who knew unemployment insurance does not ensure a survivable wage? All the tiny things I hold at bay until I can sit no longer. Patience. I lack it. I can learn to compromise, but I cannot quell completely who I am. It has been that attempt over the last decade to stifle what is inside that has made me itchy and twitchy and bitchy now. That and that damnable wattling neck. Yes, I’m stripped of all I was when I was what I was in the middle of the high desert and now the only thing left is the stuff simmering in my head…

 

 

 

Peace.

This Will Only take a Moment

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on July 31, 2015 at 10:45 AM Comments comments (0)

Here I marinate in my miasma, on the slimy cusp of a six week long work induced brain numbing frenzy - in those doldrums before the excrement commences again....As much as I'm grateful to be employed and respectful of my cobeleaguered office mates I'm beyond ready for a change....

 

 

 

Ever since I said "I do", signed a mortgage, and committed to parenthood I've attempted to be responsible, but I've reached the realization that all work and no play makes Tam a sad panda. I've naught to show for all my "sit stay, good dog" mindset but a dancing plethora of situational chaos. While I'm certainly not planning to strip naked and finger paint unicorns on my sidewalk in a furor of self expression, I am beginning the excruciating process of "personal boundary enforcement" My attempt to be all things to all those in authority has only served to nullify the me in me. It stops now.

 

 

 

I've heard wise counsel admonish that no one is as passionate about your dreams as you. Truth is, if you aren't focused on your own dreams - you'll be enlisted to assist someone else with his or hers. I am so weary of promoting the visions of others to the extent that there is no room left for the whispered longings of my own little soul. I am a wife, a mother, a worker, a worshiper, but I am also a writer. If saying yes to who I am means saying now to the whims of someone else then so be it. We only get one go round on this cobalt orb and my clock is ticking. I still love you. Even if I must say "NO" to you. If you love me, you will attempt to understand.

 

 

 

I took a stroll by a site called "livejournal" this morning. I've had an account there since the days of y360. My plan was to purge it since I hadn't posted anything since 2012. I started reading a few entries and while no one else would find the words meaningful, the posts reminded me how much I used to enjoy blogging and writing about nothing in particular. I remember a few years back when I was fearless about speaking my mind regarding the topic of the day. When I wouldn't have hesitated to pose a query to the masses along the lines of "we brandish a noose and cry foul over the demise of a collared alpha predator but butcherers of our own human offspring are so quickly forgotten, why?" I find the slaughter of any of "God's creatures" horrific but it is even more disturbing to me that we humans would commence to destroying the life of one of our own over a lion, and monsters like Kermit Gosnell and Synthia Varela-Casaus still breathe...Yes. I used to speak out for little humans, and the big stupid humans at times as well.

 

 

 

I don't mean to minimize the death of Cecil the lion, but I do hope those pitchfork weildin' types would target the source instead of the symptom. Social media outrage possibly closed a dental practice, cost peeps jobs and wrecked a man's life but poaching in Zimbabwe is alive and well and will remain so long after the little stuffed animals and flowers have been removed from Palmer's office doorstep. Directed rage is a powerful thing. Directed love, even more so.

 

 

 

I am a writer. I love writing - and I am returning to it. Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Secret Life of Banshees

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on May 22, 2015 at 10:40 AM Comments comments (0)

The day broke early with the plaintive bleating of the neighbors goats as I disentangled myself from the nest of perpetually untucked sheets. I found the younger spawn already engaged in an epic online battle, headset cocked, cat on lap and the world on ignore. If only it were that easy to shut this life out.

 

I’ve already showered, started the laundry, cursed the incessant squawking parrot and fought back tears. (and it’s only 7:00 am) If I allow myself the luxury of thinking about all that has happened in the past few weeks….my son married (didn’t see that coming) my husband needs ten thousand dollars worth of dental work, and we lost a beloved family dog. Her surviving offspring grieves in the backyard, unmoved even by the neighbors kibble stealing feline. Last weekend we shampooed, ointment lined and powdered the poor canine and still he lays, tick studded and miserable in his dilapidated dog house. Perhaps we’ve done more harm than good. Ticks are marauding bastards and this is just one more battle lost.

 

I have sufficient reason for refraining from blathering on line like I used to. Since 2009 the days have bled into one another with few moments of relief. While I’m stoked for my elder child, I find myself treading the spider silk line between absolute, gushing adoration for my new daughter in law and the corrective mental jerk in my cranium that screams “keep a polite distance”. Tensile as that line may be, awkward Tam is awkward and at any given moment my flat feet will fail and I will take a header in the middle of my carefully planned day.

 

And so I spend my minimal spare time and perhaps a few stolen moments sifting through the shaky leaves at Ancestry. I have about 2000 hints to click and seeing the number decline gives me a sense of completion and control. When I am weary I can simply push my chair back and walk away. The dead simply cannot wreak the havoc on your life that the living bring. My memories are mine. My future it would seem, isn’t.

 

Truth is, I’m tired of getting through the next day, the next audit, the next assignment, the next batch of dirty towels or spiked weeds to pull. I can’t escape the whispered admonition of my spirit telling me I am on the downhill side of time on this planet and perhaps I am past whatever bit was prime. My heart aches from running on autopilot. Survival isn’t living and since 2009 – I’ve been in terminal fight or flight – with only a butter knife and tissue paper wings. I’m scarred and broken and sad and dark chocolate won’t fix me. I run on momentum, too stubborn to stop.

 

And so it goes, I have myriad productive things to accomplish today because my family deserves a peaceful home and to those whom I’ve given my word, they deserve it kept. There is beauty in a soul that is satisfied by the simple comfort of a safe home and a job well done at the end of a day. Perhaps one day this aging bone cage will house a beautiful simple soul instead of the railing banshee at the back of my throat. Perhaps tomorrow. Or next week. A girl can dream.

 

 

 

Peace.

A Face For Radio

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on February 18, 2015 at 9:40 AM Comments comments (0)

So I'm sitting here waiting for the dear head of household to return from his obligatory one Sunday at the warehouse a month purgatory. The Heir and the spare are draped across various pieces of furniture in the living room transfixed by the latest airing of game grumps or some inane video understood and appreciated only by young bachelor lions in small groups, and I am afforded a moment to think. It's probably not a good thing.

 

You see there is a reason I rarely blog anymore. Actually there are several reasons but the excuse du jour is simply - my face. Which may seem a bit odd since blogging doesn't require one's face, just one's fingers in whatever capacity said fingers are engaged to one's cortex - but for me the dots are all connected. It seems that for all my desire to bring beauty and light into the world - I am still attached to my face. And my face trumps me every time.

 

We're all passable as kids for the most part, and for most, God is merciful enough to limit the awkward years but some of us just get stuck in the land of bumps and lumps and jagged lines and we never smooth out. We develop a face for radio, and no amount of cool makeup and hair tricks seems to cover it.

 

For me this reality gelled when I was between my senior year of high school and my freshman year in college. I bit on some well coiffed, besuited male with nice teeth telling me "Wow, you should be a model. have you ever considered classes?" Six weeks later and a few hundred dollars poorer I still remember seeing myself on camera, and the Sheena Easton clone of a teacher we had telling me, "You have a nice speaking voice. You should consider radio broadcasting."

 

I've had a few bright moments. My senior picture, at least the one that landed in the year book. Ok, I was the pinkest person on the page (not white. PINK) but it was passable. A few wedding pictures. We had a competent photographer and the dress hid a lot of "eew" and a couple of 2011 face book head shots I keep circulating (laptops are forgiving. Iphones are not) but for the most part it is becoming too embarrassing to even try. Sometimes I blame my ample girth but still. The me in the mirror is who she is and I have to accept it.

 

I'm not divulging this in hopes that someone or two someones will attempt to pillar my flagging ego with platitudes. I can smell a lie faster than a mosquito can smell your hide on a summer evening by the bosque. I just want one person perhaps to register that those of us with faces for radio still have so much to offer. I am not who you see. I am capable of blessing you - but if you pass me off as just another awkward aging idiot or worse yet; you consign me to that place of invisible because my teeth are crooked, and my chins are saggy, and I have crazy cat lady hair - you void the potential for both of us...and you make me sad.

 

I get it that God sees the inside of a soul, and that is where we should place our worth. Valid knowledge and real wisdom but in the day to day we're all walking this out in our skins. And we're putting each other in rank order based on the transience of what society calls beauty. I'm not pretty. I'm not even pleasantly forgettable. I'm fast approaching scary. Its better if you don't take that picture if I'm in frame, but I still have so much to offer. Please don't dismiss me. Flab and freckles and gray hair...they're not contagious. My hands and my heart work the same as yours. Perhaps if we all attempted to see one another through the eyes of God...

 

Peace.

I Found Jesus...What?

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on August 9, 2014 at 10:25 AM Comments comments (0)

So yesterday whilst rooting around amongst ancient Roman deceased I found my metaphorical feet skipping down a particularly winding rabbit trail. I’ve been fascinated by British mythology ever since I saw the movie Camelot as a young ‘un (No I was not actually present prior to the Crusades, thankyouverymuch) I’ll even admit to a girly crush on Nigel Terry in the lead role of Excalibur. There I was, ferreting out the lineage of minor Roman prefects to Boudica and suddenly I stumble across Jesus. Whodathunkit? Apparently He’s my uncle. Laugh all you want. I’m on a tangent here.

 

For the few years I’ve been studying genealogy and its happy companion history I’ve seen that bent we humans share wherein we align ourselves with those of our species we find appealing. Amongst the farmers and shopkeepers and sets of first cousins who married and produced questionable offspring we stud our family trees with presidents and kings and queens and call it grand. I however had a much more mundane goal when I started filling out the bare branches of my tree. I simply wanted to validate my own little existence. In short, I wanted some measurable identification of who I really was. I wanted my dad and I thought I had a fifty fifty shot of proving who he was by flipping those shaky green genealogical coins. Unfortunately, my potential DNA donors all seem to come from one tiny band on the map and as I rode the pedigree train back through the centuries, my mom, my dads and even my boss all share common ancestry. There is no paternal “Lucy” definitive of my identity and so I have learned to enjoy the journey – the mythologies and the histories especially at the points where they meld. And that’s just where I was yesterday – rambling about where Roman History subducts with the mythos of the Druids. Enter Joseph of Arimathea and an entire lineage wound around British nobility, Jesus and the grail protectors. Fascinating stuff. And then I actually paused to think about what I was looking at on my screen. Jesus is my blood relative.

 

Enter the tangent. Why do we 2000 years removed from the birth of the Christian church find it plausible that Lincoln and Lee are our uncles, that 25% of us white folk are William the Conqueror’s manytimesover great grand pups yet mention the lineage of Jesus and even a born and bred Christian like my dear husband will roll his eyes and flash a smile centered somewhere between “My wife is crazy” and “we’re seriously only spiritual brothers and sisters, don’t you know your theology?” I get it. Jesus, unless you really buy into the Mary Magdelene bent that she and JC were a thing (and there is a dancing plethora of supposition out there to support that excluding of course Biblical text) didn’t have flesh and blood offspring – but he DID have a brother. So it is entirely plausible – at least as acceptable to me that He could be an uncle as it is that Rollo the Viking straddles a fork in my sprawling tree. But now its going to get personal so those of you naysayers and fence riders, you can look away while the rest of us Cheesy Christian types revel in the thing I’m about to drop here on my page.

 

You see, God is a lot of things to us Bible bangers, us Jesus Freaks, us worshipping types and one of the things God is that speaks the loudest to me is “Father to the Fatherless” When your own parental units are questionable, either because of birth or behavior – God will adopt you. I know I am Captain Obvious for those of you who have always had a relationship with the Big Guy but many of us – we didn’t get it right away. In fact some days when our flesh screams louder than that small voice – we still aren’t sure. But God is. And He will do everything He can (which is everything we can’t) to pursue us, to prove that He is who He is and He is our Father. Even if we have to stumble across it on a pedigree chart and see it in black and white (or green and beige) Our lineage is not only physical but divine. He is the desire of my heart – a part of my family. My daddy. And I am His descendant.

 

You can dismiss it and that’s your choice. God is a gentleman and He won’t send a lightning bolt to fry you extra crispy in your tracks for thinking this chick is a half bubble off plumb but remember, I wasn’t looking for Jesus on my tree. I was looking for ME. Validation of who I was and what I was worth. And what I am is a leaf on the tree of life – a child of the living God. Hear my heart in this. That little moment yesterday, that was a hug, a “hey kid. I love You. I’m here in the middle of your day and your dreams. I know who you are and what matters to you. I reside in the infinite and in the simple seconds ticking through what you think is too small for me to consider. That’s what it was for me. God meets you where you are.

 

 

 

Rest assured I’ll be geeking out about this for the rest of my life. Pray for my family therefore – they only partially tolerate the history lessons and they find this Holy link seriously suspect. Peace.


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