#they clearly have joan of arc's blessing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

clandonnachaidh · 4 years

Text

Remember Remember the Fifth of November

“D’ye think she’ll be warm enough?”

I looked down at our daughter and swallowed the urge to comment on the fact that he’d asked that very question at least ten times in almost as many minutes. His strong jaw was clenched in concentration as he wrestled a cosy knit hat onto her head, trying to be as delicate as he could so as to not wake her but having to go to war with her already abundant curls as they fought back against constriction. Brianna was in my favourite place, cocooned in a wrap that held her close to my chest with her head resting heavily on my shoulder as she slept. I even welcomed the drool that would no doubt be spilling from her parted lips as she dreamed.

Amongst all the other blessings that having a child of our own brought to us, the fact that she was such a good sleeper was not one to go unmentioned.

I smiled softly at the sight of my husband, huge and imposing in every way but somehow unbelievably gentle when it came to his daughter. Jamie was looking at her with the sheer adoration that appeared only when he was looking at Brianna.

“She’ll be fine. Besides, it’ll be warm beside the bonfire.”

“Aye but nae too close,” Jamie warned me, pointlessly.

“Don’t worry, lad, I don’t have any inclination to launch our daughter into the flames.”

He quietly muttered ‘dinna even joke’ under his breath as he put an arm around me and pressed a kiss to my temple, showing me that I was forgiven for my attempt at comedy.

Brianna shuffled slightly so I checked that she was comfortable, made sure that her little booties were firmly on her feet and saw that her hands were cradled in tight fists under her chin. Jamie retrieved his favourite Barbour jacket from the wardrobe and slipped into it, pulling his own beanie down around his ears before he caught sight of the three of us in the mirror.

Of course I was biased but the picture reflected in the glass was glorious. We looked like the perfect little family. Jamie towering over his two girls, ever the protector. I hadn’t been aware that I was beaming with pride but when I saw myself, my face was split into an open grin. Our little unit, all bundled up against what would be a cold autumn night, complete with matching wool jumpers that had been a gift to Jamie and myself from Jenny the previous Christmas with the promise of a smaller version being underway for Brianna to receive this year.

We could hear Ian and Murtagh having a loud discussion about where best to stick the Guy even through the thick walls of Lallybroch. With a chuckle, Jamie decided that it was time for him to wade into the discussion lest his godfather and brother-in-law decided to try and drown the other in the basin full of water that had been set up so the children could bob for apples. Just as we made it into the kitchen, Wee Jamie was caught red handed trying to stick a single finger into the treacle that was cooling around the toffee apples that were supposed to have been a surprise for later. A fact that wasn’t lost on my husband.

“Yer ma will tan yer hide and ye ken fine well.” Jamie grabbed his namesake around the waist with his free arm and lifted his giggling nephew out into the cold air, his other arm never dropping from the shield that he had created around Brianna and myself.

Lallybroch had come to be our home. It was beautiful in the spring with the first buds beginning to bloom and the small walk down to the burn was worth it for a dip in the midst of boiling hot summers. Of course, it was picturesque enough to be on a postcard when it was covered in soft, fluffy snow but my favourite had to be autumn. The trees that surrounded the land had all turned, greens deepening until they turned bright orange and red. It hadn’t been too windy so even though the ground was covered in a deep layer of leaves, the huge trees were anything but bare.

“Go and sort them out before I stuff one of them into the Guy’s outfit masel’,” Jenny’s voice came from behind us and Jamie snorted a laugh as he moved towards the two men who were still having words with each other over the correct placement of the effigy that had lovingly been made from potato sacks and straw with a somewhat terrifying hand-drawn face thanks to the efforts of Wee Jamie and his little sister Maggie.

“Mary, Michael and Bride, they’re worse than the weans sometimes,” Jenny sighed heavily, a sentiment I was not going to disagree with. We watched the three men bicker over this and that before finally coming to the conclusion that they would play rock, paper, scissors to determine the outcome of a very simple issue.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I laughed as Murtagh clipped Ian around the head, clearly not happy with the result. Victorious, Ian pulled the physical representation of Guy Fawkes from the ground and placed him proudly on the bonfire, balancing him right in the middle of a particularly dense patch of branches to serve as a sort of throne.

I hadn’t noticed Jenny had gone until she reappeared with two mugs in her hands, spirals of steam rising and disappearing into the air.

“I slipped something special intae yer hot chocolate, mo phiuthar,” Jenny gave me a wink as she pressed the warm mug into my hand. I inquisitively stuck my nose close to the rim and felt a wry smile creep onto my face as I confirmed my suspicions with a look at my sister-in-law.

“That creme brûlée liqueur I got you?”

She nodded before taking a solid glug from her own cocktail, “The very same.”

From his place at his dad’s side, Wee Jamie bolted towards us and pulled at his mother’s arm, dragging her towards her husband as he begged the two of them for the bonfire to be lit.

With a look down at my own sleeping offspring, I took a sip of my hot chocolate and closed my eyes appreciatively, letting the warmth flow down my throat and into my chest.

“Christ alive, Claire.”

Jamie’s husky voice appeared from behind me and I smirked at him, knowing that only my husband could be one of the only men to see his wife enjoying a hot drink and make it a sexual thing.

“There’s booze in it. Here, try.”

I offered my mug to him but instead he closed the gap between us, careful to cradle Brianna’s head in one of his hands, and kissed the taste from my lips.

“Delicious.”

“Uncle Jamie, hurry! Da’s doin’ it!”

We all convened around the modest structure that had been built from old fence posts, planks from barn doors and old bits of timber from wooden pallets. I spied the leg of a kitchen chair that had met an explosive end the previous Hogmanay after a drunken Jamie and Murtagh had fallen into it during what had started as an eightsome reel and quickly descended into the two men trying to spin each other as hard as possible until they both lost their footing.

As if she knew that it was time for the festivities to start, Brianna started to make the little noises that meant she was beginning to wake.

“Ah, the wee snuffle pig is comin’ around, is she?” Jamie whispered soft words over her as his hands began to untangle his daughter from the folds of the wrap. I giggled at the nickname that he’d given her and stretched the tired muscles of the small of my back now that I didn’t have an extra 10kg of weight hanging off of me. Even though she was only a year old, Brianna was affectionately referred to within the family as ‘the long baby’ due to the Viking genes that had been passed down through her father.

As her sleepy eyes began to blink open, the first thing in her line of sight was her father which produced a rather spectacular smile.

“Daaaaaa,” she groaned with joy.

It was the only thing that she said, not yet having mastered any sort of name for me. She had, however, had given me the gift of a very specific, very shrill screech to know when it was mummy that was looking for. As much as I joked about him pipping me to the post, it was my favourite thing to see Jamie’s utterly radiant smile each and every time she said it.

“Did ye have a nice wee sleep, m’annsachd?” he asked as he kissed her head and then each cheek for good measure.

“Look, darling!” I put on my best excited face and pointed towards the bonfire where Murtagh held a torch and Ian held Maggie on his hip, Wee Jamie at dutifully at his side.

“Remember, remember, the 5th of November! Gunpowder, treason and plot! We see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!”

With a round of applause for the two Murray children, Murtagh put the torch to the woodpile.

It went up with a whoosh causing Murtagh to stagger back slightly. He caught himself before subtly giving the finger to Ian who was doubled over laughing.

“Ye’ve got a bit less beard the noo!”

Shaking my head at the childish antics of the two eldest men in the family, I set my sights on the reflection of the flames dancing around in Brianna’s beautiful blue eyes. A lighter higher up, I saw the same vision replicated in the eyes of her father.

“D’ye like it, Bree? Can ye see the manny on the top there?”

“One year old might be a touch young to start explaining about why we burn a man on a bonfire, Fraser,” I said sardonically.

He made a face at me before bringing his mouth down to meet mine, Brianna’s pudgy hand caught somewhere between our bottom lips.

“She’ll be raised on stories of rebels, Sassenach. Guy Fawkes and Robert the Bruce and the like.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, “Any women in that list?”

“Aye, ‘course. Joan of Arc, Sophie Scholl. All the good ones.”

I nodded once with a smile to tell him that I was happy with his additions and we turned back to the bonfire, watching as the effigy burned in front of us. Jamie secured Brianna on his hip, burying his face into the riotous curls that had escaped from her hat and delighting in the resulting giggles. His other arm was wrapped around my side, sheltering me under his arm. Despite the cold, he was warm enough for all three of us.

We watched as the flames licked and crawled over the wood, bursts of air popping as the heat became too much. It was a beautiful clear night, even with the smoke from the bonfire billowing upwards and all at once, a huge explosion of white light lit up the night sky.

Brianna’s face at the sight of her first firework was something I knew that both Jamie and I would cherish forever. Her mouth hung open, eyes glittering with excitement as the colours burst in the sky. White and blue and green and red illuminated the pale skin on her face and it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

She began to make breathy noises of awe, her little hand gently resting on Jamie’s cheek just to make sure that he was watching it all unfold with her. He quickly snuck a glance at me and smiled knowingly when he saw the tears in my eyes. A laugh snuck out of me, ready to dash my eyes and make a self-deprecating comment about being a silly, emotional mum but Jamie pulled me tighter against him and laid a kiss on the crown of my head.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” he announced. “Happy Bonfire Night, my beautiful lasses.”

#outlander #outlander fan fiction #Claire Beauchamp #Jamie Fraser #Brianna #ao3

91 notes · View notes

blogdemocratesjr · 4 years

Text

The Destiny of Joan of Arc

Jeanne d'Arc, by Eugène Thirion (1876)

The marvellous thing happened that a poor shepherd girl from Orleans, Joan of Arc, [16 January 1412–30 May 1431] did everything those who were very advanced for their time had not been able to do. At that time it was indeed the Christ impulse acting in Joan of Arc, through its Michaelic servants, that prevented a possible merging of France and England, causing England to be forced back onto its island. And this achieved two things: first, France continued to have a free hand in Europe. This can be seen if we study the history of France over the following centuries — the essential element of the French spirit was able to influence European culture entirely without hindrance. The second thing which was achieved was that England was given its domain outside the continent of Europe. This deed, brought in through Joan of Arc, was a blessing not only for the French but also for the English, compelling them to take up their domain.

If we consider this in connection with what is implied by the advance of the Christ impulse on earth, the deed of Joan of Arc achieved something about which the following may be said: The degree to which she understood those things in a genuine human intellectual way was as good as zero compared to the deed which has given the map of Europe its present form. Events had to take that course so that the Christ impulse could spread in the right way. There we see the living Christ erupting into historical events out of the subterranean depths of human nature. That is not the Christ men think they know, for the Christ impulse may be seen in two ways. On the one hand we may ask ourselves: What did the people of that time understand of the Christ impulse? If we open our history books and study the history of mankind we find that over the centuries theologians were in dispute, defending or contending all kinds of theories, attempting to show how human freedom, the Holy Trinity and other things should be understood. So we see countless theologians fighting each other, acknowledging each other as orthodox theologians or else accusing each other of heresy. We observe how Christian doctrine spread entirely in accord with the situation as it was at the time. That is one side of it. But it is not the thing that matters, just as now it does not matter what people are able to do with their ordinary intellect. What matters is that the Christ lives among men, unseen but a living entity, and is able to stream up from depths beyond our perception and enter into the deeds of men. And he has done so at a point where there was indeed simply no need for him to come in through the human intellect, through a reasoning mind, but where he was able to come in through the soul of a girl of simple mind, through the soul of the Maid of Orleans. And when he came in like this, what was the attitude of those who were able to grasp Christianity in form of the orthodox doctrine? Well, they found they had to burn the girl who bore the Christ impulse at the stake. It has taken some time for official doctrine to take a different view. There may have been a point to it where official doctrine is concerned, but canonizing Joan of Arc is not exactly the right response to the events of that time.

This is a real example of how the Christ intervened in human evolution through his servants. As I said, he acted through his Michaelic spirit in the case of the Maid of Orleans. He intervened as a living entity, not merely through whatever men were able to understand of him. This particular example also shows something else, however. Christianity did exist. The people who were there around the Maid of Orleans, as it were, did call themselves Christians. Their Christianity did mean something to them. But all we can say about their understanding is: He whom you seek is not here, [ Note 19 ] and the one who is here is not the one you seek, for you do not know him.

It must be clearly understood, however, that it was essential for Christ evolution to proceed within the evolution of Europe also in the form of an external garment. Souls were part of this development that were able to assume Christianity exactly as such an outer garment, who were able to wear it on the outside as it were. They were souls trailing behind, souls that had been incarnated there earlier and still did not take the Christ into their ego, merely into the ether body. The great difference between Joan of Arc and the others was that she had taken the Christ impulse into the very depths of her astral body and was acting for the Christ impulse out of the deepest forces of her astral body. This is one of the points where we can gain a clear understanding of something that really must become clear to us: the difference between the progressive evolution of nations and the progressive evolution of individual human personalities.

—Rudolf Steiner, The Destinies of Individuals and of Nations: Lecture IV

#Anthroposophy #spiritual science #joan of arc

5 notes · View notes

cakeandcrows · 4 years

Text

I remember this one time I was watching some documentary about a white actress, I can’t recall who. One of her first roles was something like... a German lesbian with some kind of drug addiction (I think cocaine?). Point is, in her interview segment about it, she said something like, “When my mother heard about the role, she said, ‘if I were you, I would have told the director to pick just one of those things, not all of them at once.’” And all I can think about is how like... so many of us on here are more than one kind of minority or ‘invisible’ identity, or neurodivergent, or in some level of recovery from one thing or another.

Like, this isn’t huge news, y’know? Yeah, privilege is a thing. And people are so absolutely unaware of it when they have it that it makes me want to scream. I’m even unaware of my own privilege a lot of the time and I won’t go into a moment of how I feel when I realize I’ve forgotten, because my guilt on the matter is irrelevant. I just need to get better at keeping myself in check and that’s that.

Yeah I’d love to be cis some days because of how much easier it would make my life (and honestly for not many other reasons, I’m pretty happy being trans... if it just... y’know, weren’t for how people react to it). Sometimes I think, “Man, straight people are fucking insane; how on earth do they function,” while looking back on the days when I thought I was straight and realizing that even back then I was lost as hell, but some days I’m just like, “If I were straight, would life really be so much easier?” And it would. It really would. If I were also cis at the same time. Etc.

And I don’t want to make this into an us vs them sort of thing for even a minute, either, because everyone has common ground somewhere. Does that common ground always matter as much to one person as it does to another? Probably not. Jeff Be/os probably shares a home town with a fuck ton of people but I’ll bet he doesn’t give a shit about a single one of them, or that commonality, while you could see a popular rock band and never hear them shut up about how proud they are to be from the West Coast. Sometimes it just doesn’t fucking matter to other people what you have in common with them, because to them, what’s different is so much more volatile. And it goes both ways.

There’s people from my home town, my graduating class, and even old friend groups that I could never see myself talking to again because of how we’ve split paths in beliefs and lifestyles. Or, maybe they’ve stayed the same and I’ve changed, or the opposite... and I’ll bet they’d see how I’ve changed and think the same things of me. “Wow, I want nothing to do with that person.”

I’m just... constantly having little wake-up calls over and over again of how some people seriously think that I’d choose a harder life on purpose. And I’m not ashamed of living as I am; I’m very proud of who I am and what I’ve overcome to get here.

Customers at work, where I feel like I live 2/3rds of my life these days, are always just like... a window into the world for me sometimes. Most people don’t mention my pronoun button. Some people don’t notice it outright and misgender me because they’re looking at my face; entirely being polite and engaged, and not at all aware of how they’re upsetting me. I let it go a lot of the time. It’s not worth it.

There’s the few good folks who listen carefully and patiently and are seemingly brought to a new awareness by my gentle explanations. They’re polite and they honestly revive part of my faith. Like the guy who opened his coffee order saying, “yes, miss,” and left the store tipping his hat to me saying, “thank you very much, sir.” God or whoever does things fucking bless that guy.

Then there’s the people who decide to look at my pin, and ask about it. So far, it’s either people who are just reading it aloud for the sake of it, and then becoming confused but not actually wanting to understand so much as they’re just desperate to make some kind of conversation with a Youth (which is wild because I’m 25??). They don’t actually care, so I don’t really put effort into explaining. They either cut me off mid-explanation, or listen and don’t say anything further.

Then there’s the people who look at it and laugh at me. Or the woman who decided it was a good idea to read it, listen to my explanation, and say, “You know, my daughter tried to explain that to me. I just don’t get it. I think it’s silly and too complicated. People should just stick to the old ways.” Like... lady. What the fuck do you want me to do about it. Why the fuck do you think telling me this will make me happy or even... want to engage further. I straight up just don’t understand where these people get off. They’re just as rude and uninterested in me as a human being as the people who start rattling off their order and refuse to wait for me to get it all down before shoving their credit card at my face. They do not care. They do. Not. Care. And my patience is starting to wear extremely thin.

I had a new coworker, who knows I’m trans, the other day stop mid-sentence to say, “Oh, you know, sister? Oh! Also, I call everyone ‘sis’, boys or girls.” “Not me, you don’t.” “...oh?” “You don’t call me that. Ever.”

“ >:/ tch. Glad we got that out of the way.”

It’s not cute. I don’t think it’s endearing. I don’t think it’s funny. And I don’t give a shit if you call other people that. If you thought about it for five seconds you’d realize how insensitive and fucked up it is. If anyone, anywhere, I swear to god, just thought about ANYTHING for five fucking seconds... I wish... I hope, that they’d be better human beings than they are.

Like, god, what a horrible inconvenience it is for you to have to stop and think about what to call another human being. To use their name. To use the right pronouns. To avoid nicknames or pet names that would be inappropriate for such a person. Heaven forbid you have to do that for anyone, right? Why am I different? Why are you trying to step on my toes and see if I’ll just sit here and take it? I know why. Everyone knows why. And I’m so sick of being the dog under the table who gets kicked every time it whines about having no escape or being surrounded by the feet of people sitting around the table.

I don’t hate being trans. I don’t hate being pansexual. I don’t hate being poly. I don’t hate myself. I hate the people who hate me for being myself and intentionally or ignorantly go out of their way to make my life an extra level of hell Just Because They Can. ,

I have been bullied and abused all my fucking life by one kind of person or another and not a single excuse I’ve been given justifies it. Humans are better than this. I want to have faith in humans. And there are good humans; I surround myself with them. But if I have to pry yet another motherfucker’s eyes open to yet another goddamn social issue they were too thick-minded to notice, and then have them turn around and bless me and hail me for some kind of... Joan of Arc bullshit, calling my suffering and my existence some kind of blessing, like my life had to be this hard to spread words and messages across time and space to reach their Oh So Important Ears, I’m gonna choke. Or... even the people who mean well that just straight up make me think that they actually believe that the queer people in their lives are some sort of Manic Pixie Dream (gender) who’s come into their lives to teach them something new and advance their own character development. That’s what it fucking feels like! Being reduced to someone else’s educator and being placed as a Background Character in their own fucking Growth Arc.

If there’s some sick destiny where I’m lined up to be some kind of flogged messenger to idiots for the rest of my life I want a motherfucking refund. Ship me off to the next incarnation. I don’t care if I come back as a ladybug for two days and die under somebody’s shoe.

And I’m not somebody’s teacher. I’m not somebody’s martyr or savior. I’m not somebody’s free fucking Queer Almanac and Seasonal Guide to the Experiences of Not Their Own. I’m so fucking tired of explaining myself.

I’m so fucking tired of People ™ But I also want to have so much faith in People ™ that I think I’m just setting myself up for disappointment.

Sometimes people prove me wrong and it’s okay. Other times I write a several paragraph long rant at one in the morning. Fuck me honestly, just, fuck me and boy howdy do I wish I could pluck one or two things off my list of identities if only for the sake of not having to Explain Shit To People ™

And at the same time, I very clearly care about people. I want people to understand because fuck, I was there! I used to be some Jacked Levels of Crazy and I was hugely homophobic when i was a teenager. I look back on the way I used to be and I can’t feel proud of who I was and what I believed. I know a lot of it was internalized hatred and disgust. I know all of that shit now. But I see myself in some people and that’s the mistake I make sometimes. Most of the time, I’m fine; I help other folks learn something new and it’s good and I feel fine about it. I just hate feeling like other people assume it’s my motherfucking duty to tell them and speak on behalf of all non-cis, non-straight people everywhere. I sound like a goddamn Gender and Women’s Studies textbook.

Fuck, I’m going to bed...

#rant #long post #2/14/2020 #transphobia tw

2 notes · View notes

waywardnewcomer · 5 years

Text

Reunited Part Twelve

A/N: Please don’t hate me for leaving this for 7 months. And also for the ending. Enjoy!

Summary: The Padalecki-Cortese Clan head to New York for the weekend of their lives.

Warnings: Fluff, Cliff Hanger, Pain, You’re going to hate me

Pairings: Jared x Stepdaughter!Reader, Genevieve x Goddaughter!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Previous Part Series Masterpost Masterlist

Ever since Jared had suggested the idea of proposing you couldn’t get your mind off it. You couldn’t wait to be a proper family and for your parents to be happy together. Hopefully, you’d get some brothers and sisters too.

You and Jared had decided the best place for him to propose was at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art in front of their favourite painting. Jared had covered it up by taking you all on a small family vacation to New York for the weekend. As much as you couldn’t wait for their engagement you were looking forward to walking through Central Park and wading through the orange autumnal leaves. The shopping places and views were a bonus too.

You literally skipped off the plane as you landed in New York making your parents giggle at you happily.

“Easy cowboy, have to get to the hotel first.” Your Mom laughed as you looked outside every window you walked past.

“I know, it’s just so beautiful! I can’t wait to look around. Can we come back in the winter when it snows?” You pleaded.

“Of course bub sounds like a plan.” Your Dad smiled fondly.

As you rode in the taxi to the hotel you literally had your face pressed up to the window taking in all the skyscrapers and the shops. It was like you’d never been out of Texas before; like you were a little kid.

When your Mom went to get the keys your Dad nudged you a little giving you a bear hug.

“Are you nervous? I’m nervous. Is it hot in here?” He started tugging at his sweater making you laugh.

“Dad, calm down,” You touched his arm lightly. “It’s going to be fine, she’s going to say yes. We’re going to be a family.” You smiled widely.

“We are aren’t we?” He laughed, hugging you once more before your Mom came back and sussed it out.

Once you’d unpacked and dressed a little more warmly for the weather, you set out on your quest for orange leaves at Central Park. You planned to walk around for an hour or so and then go to the Met and hopefully going out for a celebratory dinner.

You stomped in the leaves and chucked them into the air, your Mom and Dad following not far behind looking at you with fondness in their eyes. They were taking pictures of you, laughing and enjoying your happiness.

“How did I get so lucky?” Jared spoke, staring at you and back down at Gen smiling happily.

“It was fate.” Gen smiled back, giving him a quick kiss and thinking how lucky she was to have you in her life.

You taught Gen a lot about responsibility, taking on a daughter at a young age wasn’t easy and she wasn’t prepared but you helped her along the way. Of all the kids in the world, she was glad it was you. You made it so easy for her to fall into the role of a mother and you brought her to her true love. You couldn’t have been more of a blessing if you tried.

Jared was just as lucky. You and your Mom came at the best possible time in his life and when he lost you he never thought he’d be the same again. When you and Gen popped back up he had never felt luckier and that day he had vowed to never let you go. He was eager to make it official when he got married to the woman of his dreams. He’d never felt happier looking at his future.

As you skipped outside the Met you gave your Dad a knowing smile, smirking as he checked his pockets for the last time.

“Shall we go and look at some art like the real art connoisseurs we are?” You asked, putting on a posh voice.

“We shall,” Your Mom laughed, following suit and linking arms with you.

Your Dad shook his head and followed his girls in, this was it.

“And in this painting here you can clearly feel the undertones of disappointment and anger in the brush strokes,” You stated, completely making it up as you went along making your Mom and Dad laugh.

“Very insightful, I would like this in my art collection,” Your Mom nodded laughing.

“And now we come to the Joan of Arc, arguably the most romantic painting of the era,” You paused watching your Dad get down on one knee behind your Mom. “The home of many engagements and love affairs,” You wiggled your eyebrows making your Mom laugh.

“Tonights no exception,” Your Dad spoke making your Mom turn around and gasp in awe. This was your cue to start recording. “After I lost Faith and y/n I didn’t think I’d love again. And then I found you and you brought me back to y/n and I couldn’t love you more. You were a blessing in my life and you made my very broken heart whole again. I don’t know what I’d do without you and more importantly, I don’t know what y/n would do without you as a Mom. I love you so much Genevieve and there’s nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you and add to our perfect family. Genevieve Nicole Cortese, would you do me the highest honour of being my wife?”

You could see your Mom was blown away and struggling with words so you butted in; “Joan of Arc has never witnessed a no, but no pressure.”

“Of course it’s a yes. It’s been a yes since the day I met you. I love you both so much.” She gushed, kissing him passionately.

“Another point for Joan of Arc,” You mimicked high fiving the painting before shutting off your recording and giving your parents the biggest of hugs. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you so much baby girl. This was perfect Jared.” Your Mom smiled, kissing your forehead and smiling up at her now fiancee.

The rest of your weekend was spent celebrating the engagement, shopping and seeing a west end show. It had been one of the best weekends of your life and you didn’t want it to end. The whole flight back you looked at photos and videos from your trips as fond memories. None of you were ready to share them with the world yet. You wanted to hold on to them for a bit longer before they became public knowledge.

You lazed in the car ride back home, ready to see Honey but completely zonked from the trip back. It had been a long weekend of fun, excitement and long journeys and it had completely worn you out.

Genevieve looked at you from the front seat and smiled fondly. She took Jared’s hand and sighed happily.

“She looks so content. Thank you for this weekend, I couldn’t have asked for anything better.” She smiled at him lazily.

“You’re very welcome. I can’t wait to call you my wife and to make y/n my official daughter.” He grinned. “You’re making my dreams come true.”

“As are you, Mr Padalecki.”

“Car,” You mumbled as you woke up from your sleep, suddenly awake.

“What honey?” Jared asked you.

“CAR!” You screamed just before the car T-boned you on yours and Genevieve’s side. You felt immense pain in your side and flashbacks from yours and your Mom’s car crash flooded your mind before everything went black.

Not again, they never saw it coming.

Next Part

Forever Tags (people who have asked, let me know if you want adding) @creativedogs @a-magey @natashacamillaus @platonic-plots @captainsherlockwinchester110283 @sleepylunarwolf @claitynroberts @theshortegg@unicornblood4ever @casiskween @robfangirl@fanficwithasideofcanon @jaremish @mlovesstories @lauren-novak @hi-my-name-is-riley @spn-tw-37@supernatural-teamfreewillpage @spnrelatedurl @phonegalhelp @fnosidam @the-hufflepuff-hunter @chonisberonica

Tags: (tagging people who expressed interest in the series and my future writing, if you want to be added, or removed let me know) @bellero @livelikeawinchester @bloodybillie @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @sassy-spn-knight-of-hell @weirdoblogger69 @casiskween @winchesters-favorite-girl @internationalmusicteacher @atlas-of-the-world @ri-wantstorunaway @itsarandomsparkle @youtube-starkid @the-winchesters-impala @prxttybirdz @chloe-skywalker@enthusiasmisdepressing @seality @laurenw1025 @capsofwinchesters @rosie-winchester @prettybubblesintheair @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish

103 notes · View notes

smoria · 4 years

Text

wentworth [08.08]

aka a goldfish for joan/kath

aka vera can go ahead and take my entire body after that little stunt lou pulled with a mini riot.

honestly, i can’t help but feel for joan/kath in this episode. she’s being made to try to remember a life she has no idea she had despite what people are saying to her. however, with what it looks like, she’s starting to remember more and more especially after seeing grace and of course goldfish. on the real though, jake should have shut the fuck up, but he really had to implicate greg miller as a murderer despite the fact that miller tried to help liz and had ONE... ONE bad episode on the drug. jake should have kept liz out his mouth because he’s gonna catch these fucking hands for doing so and i’m ready to snap his entire existence like thanos.

@ wentworth: get rid of jake. he’s no longer needed and y’all know it. the only reason he is still around is because of grace. y’all could have clapped his whole life and i would have given you props. i’m tired of being reminded that grace is his child shared with vera. this was a storyline y’all could have killed before it really began.

i get what lou is trying to do for reb and why reb doesn’t want to talk to a psych, but one bad apple shouldn’t spoil the bunch. he just wants to make sure reb is ready for it. you can say you are, but the psychologically

kath was ready to end it all even though they made it look like greg was gonna get the axe. i mean i saw it coming that she wasn’t even going to get greg out of the way, but herself. they played it off well that she gave it to him. marie helping her though... bless. like i said before, marie’s redemption arc makes more sense than jake’s. they should have done everyone a fucking solid and axed jake.

ms miles... i feel for her even more. she looks and sounds like she never truly dealt with the siege and felt like she had to garner control by taking out her unresolved issues on the inmates. i hope she gets the help she needs and deserves.

judy.. i still don’t like her. of course she was gonna pin shit on someone that didn’t do it because she doesn’t want to catch more of a case than she’s already got. the woman clearly needs to resort her priorities. she put herself into that position and so did ruby and boomer. ruby wants to own up and wants judy to own up, but of course it is clear that apart of judy never grew up and that’s sad. i hope she can find her way. i mean, i still won’t like her, but i’d give her brownie points.

allie... she still needs to step away from being top dog and even more so now that she has lagged on lou for a crime she never committed because judy is too much a bitch to own up that she was the one who did it. of course lou seemingly committed a bigger crime from her and reb’s own past that has come back up to haunt them.

vera is really a badass mama in this motherfucker and we all know why, but seeing her just get into action got my engine revving. looks like kath is remembering more of joan and i knew it would happen especially with grace when she started getting inkling feelings while greg was trying to explain how children are neither good nor bad, just an innocent blank slate that can be molded.

that little girl she is seeing is haunting her so that girl is either her as a child or a girl she knew previously. maybe it’s just bullshit and she’s no one.

i enjoyed this episode more and it looks like next week is gonna be another decent one especially seeing a call back to another episode from season five when joan was looking out a vera walking by the mirror while she was talking to bridget, but this time she’s talking to greg and vera is going the opposite direction. i also noticed another scene from season five, episode one with what seems to be a small fight will be recalled in this episode as well to show us that joan’s memory may very well be coming back into play.

#wentworth #wentworth bible study #wentworthers #yup... another episode i let marinate and refreshed on before posting #08.08 #next week looks good and it better not let me down #the promo is giving me some ideas #see y'all next week #smoria's thoughts

0 notes

forcri · 5 years

Photo

Têtu: Madame X is clearly your most political album since American Life what was your state of mind? Were you afraid? Were you angry? Have you had enough? Madonna: A little bit of everything. I am afraid. I’m frightened by so many things that are going on in the world. As you are I’m sure. But I’m also optimistic. I feel like the future is full of possibilities. I hope I was able to channel my anger and my rage in order to create music full of joy. And I wish that these new songs will inspire people to react. As it’s what we have to do with our rage. We won’t change the world with fury. I feel every emotion you mentioned. To me, in many ways, this album is the continuation of American Life.

On “Killers Who Are Partying”, you sing “I’ll be Israel, if Israel is imprisoned. / I’ll be Islam, if Islam is attacked.” What should we understand? That you want become one with minorities? What Mirwais and I try to say in this song, is that we don’t see the world in a fragmented way, but as a unity. And I am part of that. I see myself as part of the soul of the Universe. I don’t see the world through categories and labels. But society loves to categorise, put labels and separate people: the poor, the gays, the Africans… because it gives us a sense of security. What I say in this song is that I will be every label people try to put on us. I will be on the front line. I’ll take the punches, the shots. Because I am a citizen of the world and because my soul is connected to all other humans. So I am responsible for everyone I need to take care of them. If one person suffers, I suffer. To me, this song is an act and a declaration of solidarity.

Mirwais produced 6 songs on this album, including this one. How was the reunion? We never fell out of touch. It was great working together again. ‘Killers Who Are Partying” is the first song worked on. It’s a political song but everything Mirwais and I do together, always ends up being political. Because it’s also his way of thinking. The guitar we hear during the intro of the song is a sample I recorded myself during a fado session. The sound of this guitar is exactly what I wanted. I really felt inspired by the melancholy and the feeling of this music, by the sound of Cesária Évora, by morna [music] and Cape Verde. The authenticity of the music I heard everywhere in Portugal touched me. I wanted to make this music my own and make it sound more modern. I asked Mirwais: “What do you think you can do with it Does it inspire you?” Of course, he really liked it.

In the song “Dark Ballet”, you sing “Our world is full of pain.” Are you not part of “our world” anymore? I’m not saying that your world is not mine anymore. I just say that this world where people are ruled and dominated by the illusion of fame and luck… ruled, dominated and enslaved by social media… ruled and dominated by oppressors who discriminate people endlessly… this world, I refuse to be a part of it. This song, “Dark Ballet,” was inspired by Joan of Arc and her story. It’s like a point of connection. Madame X and Joan of Arc come together. I speak her words and her language and I say: “I am not afraid to die for what I believe in.” And it’s exactly what I feel.

A year ago, you commented on a photo your manager Guy Oseary posted regarding the 20-year anniversary of Ray of Light: “Remember when i made records with other artists from beginning to end and I was allowed to be a visionary?”. Have you been allowed to be a visionary this time? I think you are taking things out of context… (Her publicist steps in: It’s unclear. Do you have another question?”, but Madonna continues) I don’t remember exactly what I wrote at the time. But I was surely was not criticising Guy Oseary. Nobody has ever not allowed me to do me anything. Yes, people criticise me, but nobody ever told me I couldn’t be a visionary. People often warn me however and say “Be careful!” (and she moves her finger like someone would when reprimanding a child).

Do you think this album will shake the music industry? I wouldn’t use this word to describe my music. Provocative, conflicting, emotional, passionate: those are the words I would use. And I also hope “inspiring.”

In the intro of “I Rise”, we can hear a sample of Emma González’ speech, one of the survivors of the High School shooting in Parkland who became an icon and advocate for gun control. Do you feel you’ve inspired this generation? I hope so. That’s what I am looking for. I see Emma as a spokeswoman and pioneer for her generation. I just keep doing what I have always done. I fight for women’s rights and humans in general. I fight for equality.

In “Medellín”, the first single of the album, you reminisce about your early days, when you were 17. What do you think of your career? I think I’ve taken a lot of shit! (laughs). That’s for sure. I feel like I’ve broken multiple barriers for women who came after me. But I’m aware that our fight is far from being over. And to be honest, I feel like I’m still fighting for the same things today.

“Like a Prayer” was released 30 years ago and created a huge controversy. Are you trying to replicate a similar controversy today? Honestly, when I wrote “Like a Prayer,” I didn’t think that the song would cause such controversy. It’s the video that shocked people: the fact that I kiss a black saint, that I dance in front of burning crosses… people saw it as a sacrilege. But I didn’t think for one second that things would be perceived like this. All of this was very controversial but it was not my first intention. This time, however, I mean to be subversive!

Provocation has always been a way for you to draw people’s attention to important matters like LGBT+ rights, racism, women… But today, it’s more the conservatives that use provocation, right? Give me examples!

People like Trump or Marine Le Pen… If you are a narrow-minded person and you use provocation, then that will be your message. Everything depends on the intention (laughs). I am not a narrow-minded person. I am not provocative so I can put people down and put up barriers or tell them “Stay seated.” I am at the opposite off that. Use provocation to destroy is not my intention.

Do you feel connected with your LGBT+ fans? Do you claim the status of the gay icon? I think it’s weird to call myself an icon. I feel blessed to have a voice, and to be able to use it to help people who don’t have one and to fight for the rights of those who are not heard. I think the word ‘icon’ is a word that other people can give you. But I can’t claim it for myself. Do you think I’m an icon?

You are the definition of the word! If Têtu thinks I am an icon, then I am an icon!

Is this album a tribute to your life in Portugal? You listened to it. You tell me if you think it payed tribute to Portugal and to fado? Not only fado by the way. There are lots of other influences I took since I live there. But obviously this is where the album was born. Even if there are other influences, this album is cleary an expression of my time in Portugal. I have a house there and I go there often. My son still plays football at Benfica. But you know, I live on airplanes. The sky is my home (laughs). I hope my Portuguese is good. I had a good coach, Dino D’Santiago. He helped me a lot and introduced me to amazing musicians. He played a major part in the creation of this record.

We don’t know Dino D’Santiago well. Could you tell us more about your collaboration with him? He was kind of an interface. He is from Cape Verde and most of the musicians from Cape Verde I worked with don’t speak English. He was in the studio with me when we were recording. He told them what I wanted. He helped me musically to give life to these songs because I had no other way to communicate with them. Well, in a way, I was able to thanks to the music. We wrote a song called “Funana” which will be a bonus track. I have another song called “Ciao Bella” which is not on the deluxe version of the album. The singer Kimi Djabaté, who’s from Guinée-Bissau, sings on this track. Once again, it’s Dino who introduced me to him. When he came to sing for this album, he didn’t speak a word of English, only Creole. Dino was the translator and really helped me. When I recorded “Killers Who Are Partying” and “Extreme Occident” which are definitely influenced by morna, I sent them the tracks. I really wanted his feedback. I wanted to know if he felt the songs were authentic. His approval was very important to me.

How do you choose the people you collaborate with, like Maluma for example? It happens in a very organic way. All my collaborations are decided when meeting the people. We share a glass of champagne, we get along and we talk about the things we could accomplish together. To tell you the truth, there is nothing really deep about that. It’s very instinctive. I am a fan of every person I’ve collaborated with.

You’ve often collaborated with French people: Jean-Paul Gaultier, JR, Martin Solveig, Mirwais… What is your connection with you? Yes! What’s this connection with the French? It’s like I can’t get rid of them (laughs). They are the authors of my biggest collaborations. Mondino, Gaultier, Mirwais… I think I love them because they are very… stubborn [stubborn means têtu in French, which is the name of the magazine.] They stand up to me. The people you mentioned are very intellectual people, extremely creative, very cultured. We share a beautiful synergy. (She slams her glass on the table and yells “Aqua por favor!” Everybody jumps. She then points to a photographer and yells “Who let the paparazzi in!? Who are you? Do I know you?” The photographer stops, terrorised. « It’s Ricardo, Madonna’s official photographer » her publicist clarifies. Everybody laughs.)

On the album, you sing in Portuguese and in Spanish. Is it a way to challenge the dominance of English in pop music? That’s exactly it! I like the idea of world music. I hate compartmentalising. We don’t want to do it with people, why should we do it with music? I like to turn on to the radio in New York and listen to people sing in Spanish, take my car in Lisbon and listen to reggaeton or dancehall. It’s great. Stepping away from English is a challenge, but you know I like challenges.

0 notes

iansoakparanormalelimination · 7 years

Text

My Paranormal Life: The Bog Creature

My life has been turned upside down and backwards many times, so many times in fact that I wonder why the twists seem to take the shape that it has so repetitively. With the last several years culminating in several life changes that started when I was a child, introspection set in and I began to really sift through the years seeking answers. Or at the very least some kind of clues. Nearly going blind will do that to you, nearly dying several times didn't seem to be the ticket.But those are tales for another time.The differences in my life from others I know has been so dramatic that in the growing darkness of my sight I began to try to piece together something. Was I always different or was this difference pushed onto me? Or was I always different and then made MORESO?Going back into my memories the differences begin right away. No one else I know can remember their first steps, getting diapers changed, the distaste for the feel of plastic pants over their underpants as they are potty trained. The first feel and silence of being sat in a depression of snow at 10 or 11 months. I could read well before entering Kindergarten because of my mother's teachings, since she labeled everything with the name of the thing in our shared bedroom, even my crib. Yes, I can clearly remember those times, even the abuses my parents and elder siblings sent my way, though those didn't ramp in intensity until after I was back home and turned 6 years old. Forgive me, I'm getting slightly ahead of myself but with reason, as you'll eventually read.Oh, and my blindness that I avoided, which you've doubtlessly been asking yourself about? Trauma Induced Cataracts from concussive impacts to my head from beatings and car accidents...no, not when I was driving, these happened when I was a child and before the law and normal use of seat belts stepped in to protect us from ourselves. and our parents.Now, needless to say this is all completely true. I know you'll all wonder if this is the case, if it's true, can I provide you with as much documentation as you need that won't be compromising, etc? I could, but that would make my life somewhat less private, but the information is available. Even my Doctor's information on the implants in my eyes so I can see can be screenshot and put up if you need convincing.But why am I telling you these things about my vision? Simple really...something didn't like the idea that I could SEE them. Really see them.As I am a child of two nations born in the US, this means a large amount of cultural background goes into the sum of my parts. With a Cuban father and mother from England, you can see what an amazing contrast there would be between the two parts of my family. The differences are so vast with one half of the family being very spiritual, Santeria being a large part of the religious makeup of the Cuban side. On the other is the celtic influence of my mother's family, with deep ties to the old faiths of the islands of the United Kingdom, all the way back to old religions of pagan and druids.As a baby I never knew how protected I was by my tias(that's aunts in Spanish) and their diligence to keep the house we lived in safe from the other world they knew was there, and feared...terrifically in fact. Constant blessings, use of camphor, holy water and cleansing with incense happened all the time. These kept my dreams untroubled and I feared the dark only because I could not see.Eventually, we moved and the home I would grow up in did not have ANY of those benefits. I began to see things in the darkness most easily. Aside from feeling things when I was near something spiritually active at a distance, I could see things, too. See what? Indistinct shapes, swirling patterns of movement as of fog or ether and something causing eddies in it just out of sight. But sometimes I saw more....much more.Take for example my tio Mickey and his wife, my tia Olga. As a little child we'd go there all the time because tia Olga was my godmother. Her mother, forgive me I do not recall her name, lived with them and had her own room. She was very old and not in the best of health, but she had an aura about her that said she was kindly and wished she could do more when my brother, sister and I came to visit than just sit in her room or lie in bed. Sometimes she was too exhausted to get out of bed and we had to play quietly on the other side of the house on the covered porch.I had a habit of wandering off and going places I was told not to go, following feelings that seemed to draw me on that were tied to my gut around the level of diaphragm. Inf act sometimes I would wander blocks away from home or to parks, scaring my family silly. I would go to tia Olga's mother's room and as I'd walk in, a man standing next to her bed would look up and smile most of the time. My memory of him is as hazy now as it is of her, but I remember dark but warm eyes, steely gray hair swept back and slicked down to keep it neat with a light blue guayabera. He was thick in the upper body, muscular but not overly so. I couldn't see his lower body since he was on the opposite side of the bed. She would look away from him to me, following his gaze to see me standing in the doorway."Hola, señora." I said."Ay!" my tio Mickey would say from up the hallway to get my attention, and I'd turn to look at him as he and his big dog, Duke, came towards me. I look back to apologize for bothering her, my mother's demand for proper English manners you see, and the man was gone. There was no place for him to go I should point out. And no one else lived there since my cousin, Michael, had moved out some years before. Keep in mind I think these events happened when I was 4, I'm pretty sure of it as my cousin's wedding had been the year before this when I was three.No one could ever tell me who that was, no one wanted to even mention it. The fact is it only started whispers between adults about the events, fearfully whispered discussions amongst them. Discussions I was not allowed to even think of eavesdropping on.It wasn't long after this that my tia Olga's mother passed on. I never found out who the man was in the room with her, but I am assuming it was someone very close to her for the simple fact I never felt menaced by what I saw and the room felt brighter after she passed, as if her illness or frail body had trapped her light. And once it was free the room fairly scintillated from its passing touch. Funny to think that years later when I brought my girlfriend(who would eventually become my wife) to visit tia Olga in her sickbed that it was in that very room. No, she was not there looking over her daughter, but the room was still bright with the light she'd left behind.A parting gift to ease her daughter's pains.Not all I saw was friendly as I'm certain you're wondering at this point if everything I saw was benevolent or kindly. As I'd said before the protection afforded us was lost when we moved as my mother never let my aunts do their ministrations again. We were given these tiny bags with a bead and a rosary medallion inside to wear under our clothes against our skin, pinned to our clothing with safety pins, to ward off evil. Because of the thing I mentioned, and a considerable many more brevity doesn't allow me to mention, I was given one more than my brother and sister. One of my patron saint, Joan of Arc. No, I'm not a female, but there is no Saint Sean. That's my name, by the way. Sean....same spelling as Sean Connery for whom I was told, jokingly or not, to be named after. Joan in French(she was French after all) is Jeanne. That's pronounced the same way as Jean of Jean Luc Picard fame for the Trek Nerds amongst you. Which as you can easily hear sounds a lot like Sean, a name that none of my cuban relations could easily say except my cousin, who was raised in the US.Forgive me for all this preface, but I thought I'd give you some idea of the events and history before the "Big Event".My mother's relations had come to visit us singly or in combinations for a little while, and I do believe I even got to see my Great Aunt Lily more than once in the US. My mother's father, Grandad, had been setting aside money since she'd left home to have her come home, either to stay or for a visit, and this money he'd made from quitting smoking. Funny enough, he'd been saving so long that the amount had grown high enough for us to all come visit them over the Summer. My father had to work so he couldn't come with us, his job was very demanding. Our "Talismans" given to us by the Cuban side of the family were not allowed to come with us and remained in a box back home, despite loud protestations. My mother was most insistent on that as she was embarrassed by them.We got our passports and in June of the year Star Wars IV A New Hope came out. So we were literally flying to UK less than a month after its initial release and I had to miss the phenomenon of the Summer that it was in 1977, but its impact was felt all over England in merchandising that tantalized me in the form of bubblegum cards with stills from the movie on them.My time in England was, to put it lightly, not boring.Why, you might ask? Whether it was walking everywhere or taking buses or trains, we were dragged to every moor, castle, monument, palace, and place of interest my mother could think of to see. This in direct contrast to the part of Los Angeles where we'd lived that requires a car and a long trip to get anywhere meaningful...it was a shock to say the very least about it one can say. All of this while traveling between the homes of my Grandad and Nanny(that's my grandmother if you hadn't guessed), my Aunt Sonia and my Aunt Celia in various places around England.From Heathrow we were driven out of the city to my Aunt Sonia's home and outfitted the next day with cagoules and wellies. For anyone not familiar, those are rainproof jackets that cover to the thigh and waterproof calf height rubber boots. For you see we had been impelled to come because that year since the previous 2 years had been a "Drought" and rain had been scarce, but 1977 was the end of the drought and we saw 3 sunny days all Summer long as nature dumped 3 years worth of water on England to make up for her laxness.Sonia's home was new and the neighborhood she and her family lived in was newly urbanized portions north of London that once just been rolling hills and forests. I slept well there, felt nothing and nothing ever happened. The same could not be said of Celia's or my grandparent's homes.Celia had an old home that was more than a century old and with much history, in a portion of England known for minor nobles living, and dying, nearby in their mansions. My grandparents flat was in the middle of a rebuilt portion of London, in an area that had been annihilated during the Bombing of London.When we first went to stay with Celia it was a bit of a shock. Upon first stepping through the front door and removing my wellies, I noticed the air was thick...and cold. To the left of the large front door was a toilet behind a closed door under a large staircase with a banister. My eyes were drawn to it as we were lead inside by my aunt, distracted with talking to my mother about her coming wedding. Another reason for our presence, so my mother could be there for her younger sister's wedding.The cold stopped as we got to the third stair and turned right on the small landing and proceeded up the stairs. Now the air was just thick and unwelcoming. We were shown to our room we'd be sleeping in, we children. It was across the hall from Celia's room and next to my mother's room. I kept looking at the door to my aunt's room, a pulsing sensation in my ears and pressing on my chest. So distracted was I, that I didn't even notice I was being asked something by my mother as she ushered me into our room to unpack.Celia smiled at me as she opened the door to her room, something about getting into her regular clothing now that she was not traveling anymore that day. I looked past her into the room with eyes wide and the feeling of dread growing. She saw my curiosity."What is it, Sean?" she asked me she looked over her shoulder into the room. Past her I could see her bed and nothing else. I looked back at her as she entered the room and then walked out of sight to the right towards what I would later learn was the walk in closet. Doing this she crossed my view of the bed and when it was clear again I saw something that chilled me to the marrow and the pressure came back enough to make me gasp.There, in the bed, now sat an old woman in a sleeping cap and nightgown that looked like something from the 18th century. Her hair was grey and tied up into the cap, her skin was parched and wrinkled but she couldn't have been older than 70. I apologize I cannot be more descriptive than that, not only was it 4 decades ago I was terrified. As I write this the terror is fresh in my breast and my heart is hammering just as it did then. The woman was sitting in the bed looking in the direction that Celia had walk out my field of view, then slowly she turned to look at the doorway. It seemed at the time she was turning her head at the sound of my gasp. Her eyes were angry, unwelcoming and accusing of some misdeed I was being blamed for.I've included a link to something vaguely similar to what I saw. Keep in mind, it's not the same but it can give you a rough impression of what I saw.At that moment my sister and mother walked past, breaking my line of sight as they walked past to go downstairs to get the rest of the suitcases to unpack. I stood frozen, my brother asking me what was wrong as they walked by. After they passed the old woman was nowhere to be seen.I told no adult, nor my sister, as I remembered the response seeing things like this had gotten me in the past at home. I confided in my brother only, and he'd told me he hadn't seen anything. He proceeded to tell my mother and sister all about all I'd said and all the future events. And yes, she looked real. Like any person you see on the street looks. Solid and alive. That's how a great deal of the spirits I see look, or so I have learned. They appear as they did in life...rarely as how they died unless it was violent or traumatic. This was something I would learn much later but I mention it here in case you're wondering.Needless to say, I always kept my eyes averted from her room so I'd never see that woman again, even refusing to use the upstairs bathroom as I'd have to pass her and risk seeing or feeling her again.My grandparents flat had no oppressive feel to it, but there was a ghost all the same. A figure would walk into the bedroom where my brother and I slept, look around and then leave. He was dressed in a strange helmet shaped like a brimmed soup bowl with a chinstrap and a strange heavy jacket with leather buckles that looked water resistant. I could never see his feet as it was always too dark in the room. As the man entered he always seemed to bring a light with him, as if he glowed mildly. Otherwise I would not have been able to see much of him in the pitch dark of the middle of the night. I have no idea if I woke each time he came, but when I did awake it was usually prefaced by the feeling that I thought my mother had just walked in to check up on my brother and I, which she did now and again.I'm including a link to a picture of what the man looks like that walked through the home at night looked like.One thing I forgot to mention was my mother's morbidity when it came to graveyards. She has been tracing our family tree for ages, and this meant we were usually dragged to find headstones with her maiden name on them. One particular graveyard near my Grandad's flat was apparently where my great grandparents were buried. This graveyard was never empty of people walking through it and looking around. We'd be there many times, clearing the weeds and bracken from the shared grave of my great grandparents and placing flowers before I asked my mother why so many people were milling about. Her answer was:"I don't know Sean.....what people?" she asked as she looked around, finally paying attention to what I asked her. As the youngest in the family I'm rarely listened to and almost everything I said was dismissed or outright ignored. Never before had I wished my mother had ignored my question.I looked up at all the people who were walking amongst the graves and pointed at them. Specifically I pointed at a girl with reddish hair tied up in a pink ribbon that was wearing a light sweater and a dress that came to her knees. Remember when I said we saw three sunny days that summer in England? This was not one of them. We were in our rain gear, this girl and all the others were not. They were all in different attire. Some looked dressy such as suits and dresses, while others were dressed casually. Some looked like they were dressed in the current clothing styles, some were considerably older. I had not noticed it before that moment. Further, not a single one of them even had an umbrella or rain gear of any note to ward off the pattering rain I could hear making noise against the plastic cagoule hood. And though the rain was not falling heavily, it was falling around us sufficiently to turn a sweater completely sodden in minutes.Suddenly breathless, I realized two things:Ghosts can appear in the daylight outside. Something as a child I'd assumed was a "safe" time I would not have to worry about running into these things I was quickly becoming terrified of. And these ghosts had suddenly become aware of me.All of them.As if they were discomfited at scaring me, they all turned to look at me with impassive expressions on their faces, except for the girl I pointed at, and then each of them turned away and faded from sight. It was almost as if they had pulled a screen in front of themselves or stepped from one room to another by changing the focus of their attention. The girl with the reddish hair and the pink ribbon? She didn't disappear, instead she smiled and stayed fairly close listening to our conversations and watching, all in a completely non-threatening manner. No one seemed to notice her or see her throughout our time there, which I was eager to cut as short as possible.Threatening or not, I was leery of her and unwilling to let her close, always keeping my mother between us. I have no idea who she was and I was too scared to find out or even try to talk to her.Just two things I must mention about this graveyard not directly related to the ghosts or spirits I saw there:Firstly, the church that stood before it was where my Aunt Celia was married that summer. Secondly, this was where my Grandad was buried when he died of massive heart attack in his flat in August just after my mother's birthday. And no, I never saw him again. His spirit, despite staying in the flat many more days, never came to me. Nor, might I add, did the man in the helmet ever appear again to me.I'm sure most of this seems innocuous and far from dangerous to the reader, but you have to see it from the point of view of a 5 year old child. Not only that, you have to understand that before this I'd never encountered so many and so often. Only had I ever seen things swirling away, or faces peaking out my closet. But there was much more to be seen in England....ever so much more.For instance, the area along the Thames where the beheadings of many condemned folks that had stayed their last days in the Tower of London gave me nightmares throughout my time there. Things I'd rather never recount or remember. Things that still leave me shaking whenever I see the Tower of London in pictures or film. Rooms filled with ancient torture devices at Windsor Castle and other museums gave brief flashes of things that made me sit up in my bed at night drenched in sweat for years. Darker things did occur during my stay in the UK, but let me finish with the "Event" that seemed to mark the end of things as they had been, and none of the events eclipsed it.Though we stayed with the relations I mentioned and never went to stay with my uncle(Billy), we did however get to visit some distant relations. Distant in both lineage and in mileage. One set was in Scotland and was not spiritually noteworthy except to say that it felt as safe as if I was back in my old home, as though something protecting me. I would later discover that the reason for this was that the family was said to be protected by a few spirits and an "Elemental". For those of you good with a search engine you might discover my family name in Scotland from just the clues I have given you here.But the scariest experience I had was visiting second or third cousins of my mother's, Glynis and Roy. Once again I apologize for not knowing exactly. They are a nice couple with a home that had a past they had no clear answers for. At my aunt's wedding we were told by my aunt Celia about the "Ghost of the Bed". It was an antagonistic spirit that menaced only adult males that slept in the bedroom, not allowing them to sleep, shaking them, waking them with shrieking, attacking them and other more painful events. They'd look into the history of the house and it went back about two hundred years, it being one of the old homes in Wales with a history rich and mostly lost through time. Of course, Roy had only been told these things and had never tried to sleep there himself. A friend of his had tried and left in the middle of the night, never to return.No one stepped forward with more information as to why the spirit did what it did, whether it was male or female, or what had brought its darkness into the home in the first place. All this was recounted by Celia with dark glee, as she looked on the paranormal I would later find out as a fan of Hammer Horror films looks on schlocky movies as something to be sometimes laughed at and sometime horrified by. A non-believer and mundane in every sense of the word, who would later run experiments on haunted locations with me as a guinea pig on her many visits throughout my childhood.Terrified at what I could end up seeing, and now thoroughly exhausted from lack of sleep and decent food. But that's a story for another time. Suffice to say, the words "Cuisine" and "English" to not belong sitting back to back and are as unrelated as any two words can be. Want to know why Harry Potter is always eating candy and treats in the movies? Can't ever go wrong with English sweets and candy.The trip to Wales was long and arduous as we had to stay on the train for several hours and a few train changes and a bus ride. Before it was all over I had been menaced by my sister and brother with the idea of the ghost in the house...ghosts they didn't believe in or could see. Menaced with the idea of being put in the bedroom I was so scared of sleeping in. You know how that is, how children are."We're going to put you in there, Sean! We're going to make you sleep upstairs with the ghost!" they'd torment me, then wail like ghosts, holding their hands in grasping poses like a walking revenant out for human blood.I'd wail and run, scared out of my wits already at the very knowledge I was going to be near it. Certain in fact, despite my mother's claims they wouldn't, that they'd do it all the same and make me sleep in that accursed room.Well human endurance can only go so far when living on egg and chips, fish and salad and saveloy. I passed out on the last bus despite trying to stay awake in order to make sure I was able to make certain I was not put in the wrong room. My siblings had a nasty habit once they knew about the ghosts I could see of locking me in closets just to hear me shrieking in the darkness...darkness that was sometimes not void of...others. I was scared that they would force me into the room and make me face it as they had threatened.My fears were in vain, they never did go through with their threats.I awoke, as children do, slowly and softly to find myself in a bed already despite the fact i could tell by the ambient light that it was still daylight. And it was also sunny outside, one of the three days I mentioned. I was covered in a thick blanket that felt almost as heavy as one of those lead coats they throw on you when you get X-rays at the dentists office. I was warm and comfortable for several seconds before I realized where I was, then terror blossomed in my chest and my heart began to hammer against my little ribcage. I sat up, struggling under the weight of the blanket I now saw was doubled up and made of very heavy material. Don't ask, I have no idea what the material was or if it was a comforter. All I recall is that it was heavy and warm.Sitting up, I look around me at the room. The bed was old and I could hear the springs shift as I did. The headboard was metal, rather like the kind you see in old movies of hospitals, but it was larger and wider. It seemed so large to me at the time, disproportionately big for a child of my small stature. To my right was a window with the pulldown shade drawn from the lintel to within an inch of the sill. I could tell the window was open because of the way the shade moved slightly now and then from air flowing around it, causing the sun that was coming in to vary in intensity. Under the window was a low chest of drawers made of dark stained wood, it looked antique and sturdy. To my left was a tall dresser that was at least 4 feet high but with no mirror on it, also made of dark stained wood. That made me feel frightened for some reason, the lack of a mirror. Don't ask me why.Directly beside the bed on my left was a nightstand made of lighter wood with a single drawer in it. Set atop it was a glass of water and a couple of Welsh Cakes next to the glass. My stomach rumbled at the sight of them and as I reached for my first, I heard a sound and looked at the door for the first time which was just in front of the foot of the bed.The sound of my family, downstairs, laughing loudly at something. It seemed to come up to my as if mocking me, teasing me. Almost like I was put here on purpose to test me, to torture me and expose me to my fears. Because after all, to them it was not real. It was explained away as imagination how many times by my mother since coming to England? I'd long lost count. And I could hear my brother and sister laughing at something, the low voice of Roy interjecting something and then another burst of laughter.Well, I thought, I'll show them. I'll get away. I'll call them all stupid and mean for trying to scare me and laughing about it! Always picking on me, the littlest in the family. The butt of all their insults and tortures! How many times had they locked me in a closet with things reaching for me from the dark? Or in a room with a ghost that could see me as well as I could see it, all in the name of helping me get over my "fears"? So many times!Tears had been tracing down my face as I thought of this, but now they intensified from drops to streams that blurred my sight as my horror and feeling of betrayal intensified. My cheeks were soaked and stung slightly from the hot, salty tears.I moved to get up but paused... I felt it then. Through my whole body I felt it...like suddenly I was deep under water. The pressure was intense and almost like a nightmare in intensity. Like drowning out of water, sinking deeper and deeper every second, the crushing feeling growing tighter and tighter about me. Pressing on my little chest, my shoulders creaked as they were forced into my body and my wrists were crushed into my stomach, almost as if a gigantic hand was gripping me. Looking back now I have no idea how I survived.I tried to move, but my arms could not defeat whatever it was that held me. Another chorus of laughter from under the door drew my attention downward and I could see the gap beneath the door with light from the hallway illuminated a small patch of the wooden carpet and the edge of the rug that the bed sat on. Fighting to draw enough breath to scream for my mother, all I could do was sip the air a little at a time into my lungs and let it out. I tried making noise, little gasps of "Help!" "Mommy!" and calling for my sister and brother...but looking back they couldn't have been louder than a whimper. They were far from where I was and downstairs...and they would probably ignore me anyway as they usually did. I felt betrayed as well as terrified beyond comprehension...but it wasn't even close to what I was was in for.A sound, distant, but persistent and strange reached my ears then in the silence of the room. It didn't echo, it seemed as though the sound was sucked away as soon as each sound finished. It grew steadily louder, and by that I could tell it was getting closer. The grip hadn't lessened on me and in fact began to push DOWN so my little legs were bent at painful angles on the bed. The springs squeaked in response to my downward pressure into the bed and I heard my mother say:"I think I heard Sean upstairs, I'll check on him later. Going to step out for a cigarette...." and it trailed off as she must have gone outside, and the sound of a door opening and closing...then silence. They had all stepped outside, I could now hear the sounds of my brother and sister laughing distantly from the slightly open window to my right.My right hip protested the pain of being crushed in the semi-sitting position with my right leg splayed out to the right and my left extended in front of me. The noise I'd heard, now seemingly emboldened at being alone in the house, grew louder. I could finally tell at last what it sounded like...it was like a groan, only it sounded like a person groaning while inhaling rather than exhaling. And it didn't stop this time, it was inhaling and making the sound, getting louder and louder, closer, but I couldn't see from where. My eye were now rolling around in my eye sockets searching every corner of the room to see if i could find the source of the sound, all the while my mind was crying for my mother, my tears now soaking through the neck of my polo shirt in front of my chest.The groan stopped for an instant, then began again, louder this time and I sensed it was very near. I looked down at the doorway, something had attracted my attention despite the new, burning pain in my chest. What attracted my gaze was the light from under the doorway which was slowly...going...out. It was being blotted out as if by a shadow of something moving over the source from the left of the door to cover the light. Eventually the light was absorbed by a solid line of shadow, and I knew it could not have been a person.A person could not make those sounds.A person could not make this kind of completely eclipsing shadow over the light. There would be a shape of feet or legs or something in the light.The sound was now just outside the wooden door, louder than before, and something more. It was not a single groaning. It was the sound of several people. NO! It was a chorus of them, and it sounded now almost like a painful gasping into air starved lungs, only it never paused to finish taking the perpetual inward breath! The groan didn't sound like it stemmed from pain, no. It sounded almost like an engine getting going, as if it was drawing something it wanted into it. The louder it got, the more I hurt at the pressure of the crushing sensation.As I watched the shadow over the light was taken away as something DARKER began to slide under the door. I know what you're thinking. Darker than the shadow? Darker than a lack of light? YES! Darker! And fuller! I could see an amorphous mass sliding under the door that was darker than midnight and as it entered the room, the sunlight that came in around the shade in the window grew dimmer! The pressure on my chest surged angrily as I was suddenly flung back in the bed and banged my head against the slatted metal headboard, which in turn smashed the wall. The sound of it, though it should have been loud, was like a muffled clunk even to me! As if the sound had been sucked away, or muffled underwater, or with a pillow! Take your pick of metaphor, I'm sure you get what I mean.My head, now dazed from the collision, was too loopy and weak from lack of oxygen to appreciate the reality I could now breathe. All thoughts of escape had long gone and all I wanted was my mother to come rescue me. To drive it off and protect me, to enfold me in her arms. But I realized that would not happen. Despite her promises, she'd put me here or allowed me to be put here. Either way she didn't really care about me.Blearily turning may gaze downward I watched the foot of the bed for signs of it as I prayed,"Let me die fast so it can't touch me or take me! Please...just let me die!" I was so scared all my limbs had gone cold from shock.The groaning started at an all new intensity, revving upwards in the chorus of sound and my eyes grew wide in terror as the dark mass now surged upwards into the air as if standing! And it didn't stop! It stood, and spread out as if oozing into the air, sucking the warmth and oxygen from the room, the light growing dimmer and darker as I laid there numbly, panting in ultimate terror. My thighs grew hot as my urine burst free into my jeans and ran out of my pants and onto the bedding. The groaning changed to an almost overjoyed, triumphant tone and it spread to the left and right like bat wings...reaching around to engulf me in its wicked, hungry, embrace."please, please, please, please..." I realized I was panting, begging as my tears blurred my vision, the mass moved up the bed and the "wings" oozed in slowly to engulf me. All I heard was the groaning, it filled my ears then and seemed to crawl into my head and echo there. A fresh wave of tears made it so all I saw was the blur and the cold feeling in all my limbs, my head propped at a strange angle against the headboard, forcing me to watch as it closed in.The anticipation of its icy touch on my already cold skin repulsed me and I began to shiver uncontrollably. Then, just before I knew it was going to touch me, my vision cleared slightly and I could see it was about to touch my shoulders and embrace me. The noise it made surged one last time, bestial sounds of the predator about to make a kill......but it was all suddenly blotted out by the intense, white hot agony on top of my head! A burning, watery feeling far more intense than if you ever get a shower of hot water in the tub, and it was only happening to the top of my head. Wave upon wave of heat! An agony like the top of my head had just been ripped open with a welding torch or a blow torch, only it didn't fade! And the room was suddenly filled with a blinding white light, so bright my eyes had automatically drawn to slits to protect them!The whole room was filled with it, except for the stygian patch of nightmare before me on the bed. It had halted in mid reach and was now illuminated completely, I could somehow tell it was in pain.Now I could see it entirely, and I wish to heavens I never did. The thing was made up of the images of faces and bodies! All black against black but easily discernible! All caught mid scream, or wail, or groan, or some position of pain and writhing. Contorted in agony, moving slowly within the mass, undulating to the tune of their own trapped misfortune. All molded together into a thin sheet of ultimate darkness, pressed into a fabric of utter damnation! This thing wanted me to become a part of it! Don't ask me how I know, I just KNOW! And though what was in it may have once been human and had the potential for love and mercy, all that was left was the desire to add more to its flock of tortured souls. I have realized since then that the faces I saw, the darkness that it was, it was all merely a covering for the real force behind it. The thing hiding behind the curtain of souls.The light in the room intensified and the burn to my scalp lessened at last, allowing me to move slightly. The mass lept off the bed and seems to be sucked under the door, all the while thrashing left and right as it drew in it's "wings" to remove them from the reach of the light. It passed into the hallway, the groaning sound receding as sounds from outside and light returned to the room. I could hear my siblings playing and my mother talking to Glynis about something..No idea what it was but it felt so good to hear it no matter what it was.The light was dimming finally and I looked around the room to see where it as coming from, weakly swiveling my head around to try and glimpse the source. But I was against the wall, nothing should have been able to be behind me and that is exactly where it always seemed to be. Always behind and above me, always out of sight.My strength, what little the light had imparted, was flooding out of me rapidly. The thing was gone, I wanted to escape, get out of the room! Now! Reaching my right arm to the left egde of the bed I tried to grab on and pull myself out of bed. I failed as the last of the light and the burning sensation fled me, I tumbled out of bed and headed to the floor.I don't remember hitting the floor.In fact, I don't remember anything that happened for the next three days.My next memories were that I was in Sonia's little green jalopy, heading away from train station in her town and on our way to her house.It took a long time to piece together the story, but here's what I know. They think I'd fallen out of bed after peeing in it that first day. I had gotten up, cleaned myself up and my mother found me half clothed trying to change the sheets. They'd fed us supper, I ate hearty of the wonderful food Glynis had cooked then we'd gone to bed. Through it all I acted normallyThat ws but I remembered none of it. Perhaps it was shock. What I do remember is eating the Welsh Cakes. Glynis made them herself. Even made me a stack to eat. That my brother didn't like them and my sister was trying to stay in shape for gymnastics meant I had all I wanted.You can say I'm delusional, or that I'm not sane. You can say anything you like. I was never more scared than I was that day, that was because I was a little boy, but I know what I saw.In case you're wondering, did "It" stay in that house? No, in fact Glynis and Roy said that after we were there, during a visit to the US before moving to new Zealand, someone across the street had died and they figured it had gone to follow the person. Roy slept in the room once to make sure and nothing had happened. I had a different take on things but never spoke to them of what I knew. Wasn't worthwhile telling them the thing followed me and made my life hell, guilt never solved anything.I don't know what it was, I don't care to name it. Give it a name if you need one, I could care less.What I do care about is that from that day on my life was different. It couldn't get to me, so my family turned dark. I don't know if it was the thing that wouldn't let people sleep or not in the tale we were told, I also don't care. What I care about was that my family went from being what it had been to cruel and often times vicious. After we came home the darkness got to my father. I know this because he beat me until I was unable to keep control of my bodily function, even gave me a concussion......all on Christmas Day in 1977. Merry Christmas. The reason? Because I accidentally opened the wrong present.Car accidents followed, also. My father began to drive angry, regularly. I nearly went through a windshield with a full backpack on at age 9, the only thing stopping me was the fact the window wasn't made to shatter. 1970s construction...gotta love it. My mother began to regularly deal out damage to me because my siblings would blame me for things they wanted to see me punished for. And my siblings began to use me as a whipping boy when they were upset. As they explained it, and I am quoting my sister directly here:"Just coming into a room with you in it makes me want to...just hit you, Sean. Find something heavy and WHAM!" to this my brother quickly agreed with her.It made me feel worthless and I withdrew from their presence as much as I could. This seemed to make them more antagonistic, my brother acted as if he were always being egged on to find anything he could easily get away with hitting me in the head with. This even included putting a metal nut on his finger and lashing out at my head when no one was looking., especially the top of my head. Complaining to my mother was useless. I always received a tongue lashing to the effect that either it wasn't serious what was being done or a shout at my brother to stop it. No further punishment to dissuade such behavior was ever meted out.The only solace I had in this time came from my Cuban Grandfather. Papacito. He would protect me, when I was near him I was safest from all of them. Naturally, this dark thing made sure he was gone as soon as possible. My parents divorced suddenly, and my mother drove off my aunts and grandparents. Despite the fact they lived next door to us, she found a way to make them move.After that point the cataracts started to form, and though I could see the spiritual things somewhat as dim outlines I could not see them as clearly as before. No longer did they look like normal people. You see "It" didn't want me to see so easily anymore and it figured out how to reach me. At least that's what I think.Now I have ocular implants and I can see as any of you can see....mostly. Couple more laser treatments. No more cataracts. My ability to see ghosts seems as it was when I was 5.I know this because I was shopping one day after the first surgery and my left eye was unbandaged two days prior. A little girl ran past me giggling and knocked over produce as I watched, then ran through a cart loaded with produce as if it wasn't there. The person stocking the produce, a dour looking hispanic lady, never looked up to follow her. She only humphed in annoyance and picked up the peppers,putting them back where they belonged. I asked if she saw the girl and she gave me a puzzled look.You may be wondering does misfortune still follow me, are my steps dogged by this thing? No. It's gone now.And with good reason, I might add.But that, as they say, is another story.`

#paranormal stories #paranormal #metaphysical #psychic #Ghost #poltergeist #wraith #aura #ghosts #spirits #creepy #true story

1 note · View note

catholiccom-blog · 7 years

Photo

The Soaring Ambition of St. Thérèse of Lisieux

In the Harry Potter novels by J. K. Rowling, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s Sorting Hat places new students into one of four houses, each house having been founded by a wizard or a witch who wanted to form students according to his or her favorite character trait. Gryffindor’s students were known for bravery, Ravenclaw’s for intelligence, Hufflepuff’s for steadfastness. Only the house of Slytherin valued a character trait considered by most to be a vice, not a virtue; ambition.

I once asked my Facebook friends, just for fun, to imagine that the Sorting Hat had the opportunity to sort saints. Into which Hogwarts house would it have placed your favorite saints? In my own answer, I might have shocked a few friends by saying I thought the Sorting Hat would have placed St. Thérèse of Lisieux (1873-1897) in Slytherin.

The idea that the sweet young girl whose feast day we celebrate tomorrow—who died at 24 and who was the epitome of the sentimental Catholic piety of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—as an ambitious ladder-climber like Rowling’s Slytherins seems unimaginable. At least on the surface.

"I choose all!"

The youngest of nine children born to the recently canonized saints Louis and Zelie Martin, St. Thérèse was ambitious from earliest childhood. In her spiritual testament, Story of a Soul, Thérèse shares several anecdotes about her life that demonstrate her ambition. One of the first was the time her sister Leonie offered Thérèse and another sister, Celine, items from a basket filled with pretty scraps for making doll clothes. Celine chose a single item from the basket, a ball of wool. When it was Thérèse’s turn, she grabbed the basket, saying “I choose all!” She wrote:

This little incident of my childhood is a summary of my whole life. . . . There were many degrees of perfection, and each soul was free to respond to the advances of our Lord, to do little or much for him, in a word, to choose among the sacrifices he was asking. . . . I cried out, “My God, I choose all!”

St. Thérèse’s ambition continued into her teen years. When her older sisters, Marie and Pauline, left home to become Discalced Carmelite nuns, Thérèse knew she too had a vocation and was eager to enter the Carmel of Lisieux as soon as she could convince her family and the local bishop to permit it. When she met with resistance, she pleaded her case to the pope himself during a pilgrimage to Rome with her family. She was finally able to enter the Carmel at the young age, even for the time, of 15.

Call to a priestly vocation

During her years in cloister, St. Thérèse struggled to discern her vocation within the Church, over and above her vocation to the Carmelites. She wanted so much:

Carmelite, Spouse, Mother, and yet I feel within me other vocations. I feel the vocation of the warrior, the priest, the apostle, the doctor, the martyr. . . . I feel within my soul the courage of the Crusader, the Papal Guard, and I would want to die on the field of battle in defense of the Church.

It’s worth pausing a moment on St. Thérèse’s ambition to be a priest. At the time, there was no debate within the Church about whether a woman could be a priest. And she clearly did want to be an ordained priest:

I feel in me the vocation of the priest. With what love, O Jesus, I would carry you in my hands when, at my voice, you would come down from heaven. And with what love would I give you to souls!

St. Thérèse went on to observe, “But, alas, while desiring to be a priest, I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi, and I feel the vocation of imitating him in refusing the sublime dignity of the priesthood.” She instinctively realized that, however much she desired the priesthood, however much she felt drawn to it, the priesthood was not for her.

A true vocation: love

And yet her ambition did not falter. St. Thérèse finally discerned her true vocation, a vocation that would make a less ambitious soul tremble at the thought:

I understood that love comprised all vocations, that love was everything, that it embraced all times and places—in a word, that it was eternal! . . . My vocation is love! Yes, I have found my place in the Church and it is you, O my God, who have given me this place. In the heart of the Church, my Mother, I shall be Love. Thus I shall be everything, and thus my dream will be realized.

Perhaps it might seem that, like Icarus, the boy whose ambition to soar ended with his fall into the sea, St. Thérèse was doomed to disappointment. How could a young girl, hidden away in a cloistered convent by her own choice, possibly achieve her dreams of glory?

And, yet, after the release of Story of a Soul, published a year after her death, St. Thérèse’s dizzying ascent to the heights of glory in the Church began. She was canonized a saint in 1925 after several popes sped up the process. Two years later her feast day was placed on the universal liturgical calendar so that it would be celebrated throughout the Church. She was named a co-patron of the missions, alongside St. Francis Xavier; and she was named a co-patron of France, alongside one of her favorite saints, Joan of Arc. In 1997, the centenary year of her death, Pope St. John Paul II named St. Thérèse a Doctor of the Church, fulfilling Thérèse’s desire to be a doctor.

Blessed ambition

Ambition, then, is not necessarily a vice. As Rowling depicted in the Harry Potter series, it can be put to the service of evil. But as St. Therese demonstrated, it can also be put to the service of good and can be a God-given impulse by which God draws us to himself. It’s fitting to end with one more quote from St. Thérèse of Lisieux:

We are living now in an age of inventions, and we no longer have to take the trouble of climbing stairs, for, in the homes of the rich, an elevator has replaced these very successfully. I wanted to find an elevator which would raise me to Jesus, for I am too small to climb the rough stairway of perfection. I searched, then, in the Scriptures for some sign of this elevator, the object of my desires, and I read these words coming from the mouth of Eternal Wisdom: “Whoever is a little one, let him come to me.” And so I succeeded.

#Catholic Answers #Michelle Arnold #St Therese #Little Flower

26 notes · View notes

queensofmystery · 7 years

Text

Re: this post (cuz I feel bad for rambling under a gifset, op didn’t deserve that)

oh boy ok this got me feelin’ some kinda wayyyy!!!!! the way he’s smiling at her in that bottom left gif – such a rarity!! (the show won’t let them say it but he’s so fucking glad she’s ok) i wanna give a shoutout to JLM here ok the way sherlock was just lowkey vibrating with terror and barely contained impatience throughout the ep yeah it’s bc of the hostages and guilt but it’s mostly bc of joan and i can’t deal with it the writers may have forgotten abt joan’s kidnapping but jlm makes sure we know sherlock has not as the av club review said – the show didn’t allow the characters to fail completely and that diminished the ep somewhat it also didn’t allow the stakes to be too high (which also diminishes it) we know joan isn’t gonna get killed – and when she figures mr burnell out we know he won’t even hurt her but goddamn it if JLM’s acting throughout doesn’t scream ‘i am all too aware of my fallibility and i cannot fail watson’ like – the way he starts yelling his deductions over marcus at the end straight-up terrified poor bb (this isn’t even the first time someone takes her away from him or endangers her life bc of the work they do) (do you think sherlock forgot that technically it was ugly creeper microsoft who saved her from her kidnappers) (cause i sure as hell haven’t) (via @disheveledcurls)

Rocío you’re tearing up my heart rn. Bless Jonny Lee Miller for not forgetting - I could tell it in his performance too (and the fact that the writing itself didn’t let him overtly express his strong emotions makes the whole situation hurt more somehow? maybe it’s just me). That scene where he’s all but yelling at Marcus after the deadline, dear god that hurt.

But what you said about creeper, I gotta add (because I’ll take any excuse to rage against him you know me) - before that stupid scene that didn’t happen at the end of 223, Joan had no intention of thanking creeper for saving her from her kidnappers. None. She was all about throwing him out of her life, point blank. She knew she didn’t owe him any thanks. She knew that. She had no intention of letting a man into her life who she couldn’t trust, of forgiving a person who’d put her life at risk because of a stupid web of lies. That is truly who Joan is. Once you’re out of her favor, you are out for good. We saw that in 510 with the murderer of the week (a victim of abuse but still irredeemable in her eyes because he took the life of a woman for putting herself at risk in order to help him).

The reason she took Sherlock back in season 3 (besides the Doylist explanation of the writers don’t care about Joan) is it was either leave New York, force Sherlock to leave, or reconcile somehow. Otherwise she would make her work life as a consulting detective in NYC miserable by refusing to work alongside Sherlock and Kitty. In a way I think Joan took Sherlock’s return to NYC as an apology in itself, since they apparently have this unspoken rule that Speaking Their Softer Vulnerable Emotions Aloud Is Forbidden. Or something.

But once you truly hurt or damage someone or something Joan cares about, she couldn’t give less of a shit about you. Like Mycroft, Morland, Moriarty, the murderer in 510. With Mycroft it was him allowing his lies to put her in danger, with Morland it was his abuse of Sherlock, with Moriarty it was both the abuse of Sherlock and the total lack of regard for human life, and with the teenager in 510 it was lack of compassion toward someone who clearly, selflessly, had tried to save him from his abuser.

What’s the biggest f*cking problem with the Mycroft arc is that Joan should’ve had an issue with the emotional abuse Sherlock suffered under his biological family. That should’ve come up instead of the stupid antagonism between the brothers being played for laughs and cheap tension between Mycroft, Joan, and Sherlock. But instead they insulted Joan’s character by making her attracted to creeper, and having her attraction to him (and her justified longing for independence from Sherlock that should not have been aligned with attraction to Sherlock’s f*cking gross brother c’mon) be a part of the main wedge that grew between Joan and Sherlock throughout season 2. That’s so disgusting to me I can’t ever articulate it well enough because I’m so angry. They could’ve used another man, another job, hell, they could’ve used JOAN WANTING TO MARRY MORSTAN, WANTING TO MARRY ANYONE, or, y’know, just wanting to move out of the brownstone, an element of tension that was already present, would’ve been enough tension for Joan and Sherlock in s2. But no. No. They had to add in Sherlock’s disgusting creeper brother to the mix and force Joan into a relationship that was so OOC for her it makes me sick.

TL;DR: Elementary deserves better, Joanlock deserves better, Mycrosoft is disgusting and I would douse him in gasoline and flames if I could, and for the millionth time, Joan Watson Deserves Better and I’m gonna go write a fic now

#negativity for ts #joan watson #jwdb #mr creeper #my s5 meta #my s2 meta #episode #513 #my jw meta #disheveledcurls #jw meta #sh meta

5 notes · View notes

depizan-city-of-ladies · 5 years

Text

Christine de Pizan: a biography and timeline

This biography is a perfunctory one, because I’m of the belief that understanding the author is key to understanding the work. I’m not a historian and I haven’t studied Christine or her time period at much length, so this is going to be a “let’s learn together” moment. If there are any Kind Souls out there who want to provide richer details, ask probing questions, etc., please do so. The primary source for this information is here.

If you’re interested in learning more about Christine’s biography, I also recommend the excellent episode of Stuff You Missed in History Class. Here’s the link to their site: link

Born: ca. 1364 in Venice, Italy

Christine’s dad was a physician, astrologer, and politician in Italy (boy, oh boy, have our standards for leadership dropped) named Tommaso di Benvenuto da Pizzano (aka Thomas de Pizan, which is what I’m going to call him from now on).

1368: Christine is 4 years old. Thomas moves the family to France.

Christine was doubly blessed, in that she not only had a father who clearly loved and encouraged learning, but she was raised in the highly intellectual French court.

1379: Christine is 15 and is married to Etienne du Castel, a court secretary. He was ~23 years old.

Thankfully, the marriage seems to have been a happy one. Her early work includes several ballads that express a deep sorrow over Etienne’s passing.

1386: Christine is 22. Thomas dies, leaving her with outstanding debts.

1389: Christine is 25. Etienne dies, probably from the plague. Christine has 3 children (possibly an additional niece), no surviving male relatives, and had to go to court to claim the salary still owed to her husband.

Pizan decides not to remarry and instead turns her attention to the task of writing for profit. At first, she focused on romantic ballads and love poetry which were popular in the time period. This allowed her to amass a frankly astonishing list of influential patrons including:

Louis I, Duke of Orleans

Phillip, Duke of Burgundy

Marie of Berry (aka Mary Berry, the time traveling sorceress of pastries)

an Earl of Salisbury from England

Queen Isabel of France

1402: Christine is 38. She initiates a "literary quarrel" (which is such a ridiculously fussy name -- basically it was like when rappers call each other out in their songs).

This quarrel is called the "Querelle du Roman de la Rose" or the "Quarrel of the Romance of the Rose". It was in reaction to a work entitled Romance of the Rose written by Jean du Meun.

1407: Christine is 43. Civil war breaks out in France.

1410: Christine is 46. Pizan publishes a treatise discussing concepts of just war, treatment of troops and prisoners, and more. She adheres to the concept of divinely ordained justice but critiques the cruelties and crimes committed.

1413: Christine is 49. She publishes her final major work, The Book of Peace, dedicated to the dauphin, Louis of Guyenne. It has advice on how to govern well, advocates against civil war, and advises the prince to set an example by being wise, just, honorable, honest, and available to his people.

1415: Christine is 51. France is defeated at Agincourt. She retires to a convent and she ceases writing.

1429: Christine is 65. She writes a paean (a song of praise and triumph) to Joan of Arc.

This is actually really cool. Not only because it was the first thing Pizan officially wrote in over a decade, but because Joan was only about 17 at the time and was written very shortly after Joan first appeared at court. It is the only French-language work of this kind that was actually written in Joan's lifetime!

1430: Christine dies at age 66.

#women in medieval literature #medieval history #christine de pizan #biography #romance of the rose #jean du meun #feminist history #French history #joan of arc

0 notes

romancatholicreflections · 7 years

Text

8th Oct >> Daily Reflection/Commentary on Today’s Mass Readings (Isaiah 5:1-7; Philippians 4:6-9; Matthew 21:33-43) for Roman Catholics on Sunday of the Twenty-Seventh Week in Ordinary Time, Cycle A.

Commentary on Isaiah 5:1-7; Philippians 4:6-9; Matthew 21:33-43

TODAY’S PARABLE is linked to last Sunday’s about the two sons sent to work in their father’s vineyard. One promised to go and work there but he did not actually go. The other at first refused but later relented and went. The message of Jesus is clear (especially in the context of Matthew’s Gospel).

God’s people had disappointed their God. It was the formerly sinful Gentiles who took on the task of building the Kingdom. This should not be understood as anti-Jewish. On the contrary this was being written by Christian Jews for Christian Jews and it must have been a painful thing for them to see and accept.

Poor tenants

Today we have a parable saying more or less the same thing. Strictly speaking it is not a parable but an allegory. A parable normally presents one lesson and the details are not relevant; while, in an allegory, each detail of the story has a symbolic meaning.

The message clearly is that God’s people have been poor tenants in the Lord’s vineyard. However, we read this not to sit in judgement on certain people in the past. We must be careful to be aware of the relevance of this parable for our own situation. We are not reading it for historical reasons but for reflection on our own lives and behaviour.

The Lord’s vineyard

Both the First Reading and the Gospel focus on the Lord’s vineyard, that is, the place where God’s people are to be found. At first, Jesus chose the Israelites to be his own people. He was with them on their wanderings in the desert on the way to “a land flowing with milk and honey”. “What could I have done for my vineyard that I have not done?” the Lord asks in the First Reading.

But the response of the people/tenants in the vineyard was far from the expectations of the master of the vineyard: “I expected my vineyard to yield grapes. Why did it yield sour grapes instead?”

In Jesus’ story the owner sends his servants to collect the harvest. Instead, the tenants seized, beat, stoned and even killed the owner’s messengers. This happened again and again. The message is clearly understood by Jesus’ hearers. The Lord had sent his prophets to remind his people of their duty to serve, to be a fruitful people. Yet, one by one, God’s messengers were rejected.

No respect even for the son

Finally, the owner’s own son was sent. “They will respect my son,” the owner said. But no. He also was seized, thrown out of the vineyard and killed. They could now take over the vineyard for themselves. It reminds one of the arrogance of our first parents who thought the knowledge of good and evil would give them power over God; of those who tried to build a tower that would reach right to the heavens. And the killing of the son “outside the city” is a clear reference to Jesus dying on the cross outside the walls of Jerusalem.

Called to the Lord’s vineyard

Today, we are God’s people. We are the tenants in the vineyard. Now he expects us to produce fruit, fruit that will endure. The obvious question for us to ask ourselves today is: How are we doing? How much better are we than the chief priests, the elders, the Scribes and the Pharisees? We are specially privileged, by baptism, to be called to work in the Lord’s vineyard. Each week we are invited to gather together to hear the Gospel message and to make it part of our lives. We are all called to be members, active members of the Body of Christ, the Christian community, the Church.

Many martyrs

How do we see this call? Do we find it a privilege, a blessing, or a troublesome burden? How well have we received the message of the Lord?

Over the centuries, how many prophets in our Christian communities have been rejected, abused and even killed? We think of Joan of Arc, Thomas More, Oliver Plunkett and, in our own times, Bishop Oscar Romero, Martin Luther King, the countless victims of violence in Central and South America, in Africa, not to mention Northern Ireland.

All these martyrs have one thing in common. They were killed not by pagans but by fellow-Christians, tenants in the Lord’s vineyard. We can hardly feel superior to the people Jesus is

criticising in today’s Gospel. Isaiah’s words in the First Reading are so true:

I expected justice but found bloodshed;

I expected integrity but found only a cry of distress.

In so many parts of the world we do not have to go far to see the relevance of those words.

What kind of grapes?

Even so, we may feel we have not personally been part of any of this. Yet, what kind of grapes do we as a parish community produce? Are they sweet and luscious or are they pinched and sour? Is our parish a real sign of Jesus’ presence and love in this part of our city? What kind of impact do we have?

Are we living out the words that Paul proposes to the Christians of Philippi in today’s Second Reading:

Fill your minds with everything that is true,

everything that is noble,

everything that is good and pure,

everything that we love and honour,

and everything that can be thought virtuous

or worthy of praise.

He goes on:

Keep doing all the things that you learnt from me

and have been taught by me

and have heard or seen that I do.

These last words are quite a challenge for all of us. But if we can live them out, then, says St Paul, “the God of peace will be with you.”

Parish vineyard

Our parish is our vineyard. It must not produce sour grapes that no one can eat. It must be open to the various ways the Lord speaks to it, whether those people are Church leaders or prophetic voices which may sometimes say things which are painful to hear.

There is always a temptation for a parish to become a security blanket for those who do not want to face up to the challenges facing every society. When that happens, it tends to cling to old, fixed ways of doing things and to resist change. People who propose changes that are necessary in serving a constantly changing society may be resisted and resisted very strongly. Each parish can find itself producing its core of “chief priests and elders” (who, by the way, may not be the clergy) who will make sure that prophetic voices (who may be the clergy) and people with real vision will be effectively blocked.

It is just as easy for us in these times to fail to recognise the voice of God in the messengers he sends us, just as the Jewish authorities of Jesus’ time failed to recognise the Word of God in him. It was Cardinal Newman who said more than 100 years ago that “To live is to change; and to be perfect is to have changed often.” If we are not really making sure that our vineyard produces rich grapes, not only for us but for others, too, to enjoy, then we are falling short as “tenants”. It may well happen that the Lord may ask others to come and take our place.

If our church was closed down, sold off and turned into a dance hall what real difference would it make to our district? Of course, we who come here regularly would miss it, but what of others who never step inside? Are we really concerned about that impact or do we think more of our own personal religious obligations and needs? Do we measure the quality of our parish by what goes on in this building or by what happens when we leave it? Obviously, both are important but there cannot be one without the other.

0 notes

the-record-columns · 7 years

Text

Feb. 22, 2017: Columns

…and the box it came in

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a road trip I took with my friend, Carl White, who, for the past six or seven years, has produced and hosted Life in the Carolinas, a syndicated television show.

During the trip we were searching for an item of TV trivia for Carl's friend Tom Isenhour of Salisbury who has been collecting for years. The premise being that if we found something he didn't have, that would in and of itself be unusual. Well, we found a child's Davy Crockett outfit that Tom did not have, he was well pleased, and Carl and I succeeded in our mission.

But, what Tom did have, was an original box for it, which he had bought some years earlier and put away for the day when he would find its contents. Which, of course, brings us to this week, and the promised follow-up about boxes.

Collecting things brings out all kinds of minutiae for folks who are trying to make a set of something. Stamp collecting is the best example. There must be a 25 different things that can change the value or the cataloging of any given stamp, from something as obvious as whether it is new of used, down to how many perforations it has on each side. Personally I am content to just have one to go in my album, because, as I like to say, it is just as much fun and takes about the same time to find the spot for a stamp worth a penny as it does for a rarity.

Boxes, however, are something I hadn't really thought about until after our trip to see Tom Isenhour's collection. Then I remembered that a few folks who visited the poor man's museum here at The Record's offices and have tried to buy a box which is full of old calendars and other miscellaneous items. Now understand, they didn't want what I had in the box, just the box itself, which reads on the side “Remington Standard Typewriter.” It is a wooden crate, not in very good shape, but it was pointed out to me that you can find an old typewriters at every antique store or flea market you go to, but the boxes just do not exist. The got thrown away, or used for kindling.

So I began looking around the shop and realized that I had managed to pick up several good boxes—all of which are empty—and are all harder to find than what came in them. Among them are a large Stetson hat box which was given to me by Sarah Payne Absher and her sister Betty Chloe, whose parents operated Payne Clothing in North Wilkesboro from forever till the early 1960s. I also have an old hat box from Spainhours, a retail fixture in Wilkes and surrounding counties for over 100 years, courtesy of Syd Spainhour, as well as a box for Her Majesty lingerie and sleepwear, also from Spainhours. I don't know where it came from, but I also found a Madame Alexander doll box for “Mary, Mary #451”, while empty, it is in good condition—perhaps Carl will read this and find me a Mary-Mary.

As I looked around, there are assorted wooden crates and boxes for everything from axe blades, to Winchester ammunition, Western's World Famous ammunition, Waters Extra Fine Sugar, Kraft cheese, Brunswick talking machines, and even a crate for Empire nuts, bolts and rivets from Port Chester, New York. These, like the typewriter box, make excellent displays as well as conversation pieces.

I'll finish with small appliances, all of which have the item in question still inside. There are two electric irons; a Betty Crocker steam version as well as a Graybar quick heating iron. The Graybar iron's box had wooden wedges glued inside at one end to keep it from sliding around in the box. There is a Hamilton Beach juicer attachment for their Model H mixer and my personal favorite, a Presto Hot-Dogger—not just still in the box, but a never opened box at that. The only way you can get an idea about what it looks like is from the illustration on the cover.

No, it doesn't take too much to make me happy.

I now suppose that the collectors addendum to “Do you want fries with that?” will have to become, “Do you have the box it came in?”

“Nevertheless, she persisted…”

HEATHER DEAN Reporter/ Photo Journalist

When I was about 7 years old, I remember playing in the yard at my grandmother’s house with my boy cousins, and one of their friends. So there we were, making believe, and I decided I was going to be the doctor. “You can’t be the doctor” my cousin’s friend said. “You’re a girl.” Neither I nor my boy cousins understood. “She can be whatever she wants” my younger cousin said, and that was that.

I did ask my mom about it later, because it never occurred to me that I “couldn’t” or that as a girl I was limited in any aspect. I was curious to know what “because you’re a girl” meant. The women in my family were strong, independent and secure in whom they were. It never occurred to me that my mother, her sisters, either of my grandmothers or any girl I knew for that matter, would ever be questioned in their endeavors. Especially either of my grandmothers- they were the first role models I had.

So when I asked my mom about the event she laughed and said that yes, some people felt it was a man’s world, but that with hard work and persistence, anyone could be anything they wanted to be. Take my mothers mother:

My grandmother, Betty Jane, was the Matriarch, and clearly always the one in charge. She served as a 2nd Lieutenant in the US Army Nurse Corps during WWII. She was one of the first women in her unit to get a pilots license. The man behind the desk told her women didn’t need to learn to fly, that’s what the male pilot was for. She persisted saying (and I quote) “I’m not going down in this plane and loosing my patients cause the pilot gets his ass shot. I will learn to fly.” Turns out, this is how my grandfather and grandmother met. He was in line behind her and saw the whole exchange, and promptly fell in love with the tenacious redhead. .She stayed in the medical profession after the war. .She was appointed as the first woman in North Carolina to the position of State Commander of the VFW1996-1997, and I stood and watched dumbfounded as Elizabeth Dole, and other notable people waited in line asked for my grandmother’s autograph at that event in Greensboro, NC. She was a life member of the National VFW, the National American Legion and the National AMVETS organization. She traveled all over the country to meetings for veterans. In the case of her grandchildren, she could stop you with a look, and we knew we were in trouble when the words “Oh for Pete’s sake!” came out of her mouth. Needless to say, this tiny 4 foot 11 inch tall Irish woman was a force to be reckoned with, as were my mother and her sisters. (In case you ever wondered where my sister and I, or my girls get it from.)

Looking back, I believe it was on that day I was instilled with my mother’s love of history. All genres, but specifically “herstory.” I learned about the suffragettes, and take my right to vote seriously and with gratitude; Grandmother Moses, who understood as much as Lady Liberty how important freedom was; Dolly Madison saving the Whitehouse; Victoria Woodhill, who in 1872 became the first woman to run for president; Amelia Earhart, who did the unthinkable in her time; and for whom my youngest is named; Joan of Arc, who raised a literal army and died for what she believed in; Frankie Silver, the first woman hanged in North Carolina for the murder of her physically abusive husband; Lilith; the first woman God created for Adam in the Garden of Eden, but who was too insubordinate (read: persistent) for the man; the list goes on, women’s right movements from the beginning of time, to the battles we still fight for our individual rights. My mom had her share of bra-burning-fight-the-the institution- hippie-chick stories, always persisting in her own right. For instance: even though Roe v. Wade had been passed in 1973, she was ridiculed by the women in the church when she decided to get her tubes tied in the 80’s after her third child, because apparently, that was a form of abortion and surely God would not approve of a woman taking control of her body like that.

But the 80’s was a long time ago, right? Women have come so far, becoming Doctors, Presidents of foreign countries, Senators, Congresswomen, CEO’s, Heads of State even. And yet, here it is, 17 years into a new millennium, and an esteemed Senator Elizabeth Warren, a professor of law and prominent scholar, was shushed by a man while speaking on the senate floor. What makes this even more ludicrous is that male senators before, and immediately after her, spoke the same words, reading from a three-decade-old letter from Dr Martin Luther King's widow, Coretta Scott King, then regarding Mr. Sessions being considered for federal district court judge in 1986, and pertaining to President Trump's pick for attorney general . Warren is now forbidden from participating in the floor debate over Sessions' nomination ahead of a confirmation vote. She has literally been silenced. Why? As Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R. Kentucky) so eloquently put it "She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted."

Well, if I had chosen to believe that same kind of rhetoric when I was 7 Mr. McConnell, I would never have become the history making, award winning woman I am. Count me in as a rebel for the cause. . Mind you, I am by no means a feminist. I don’t think I’ve ever needed to be. I’ve always known I was just as good as anyone else, and time and again I’ve proved it to my self and others. I suspect it was all because of the fierce tenacity, sometimes stubborness, and persistence that continue to be handed down through the women in my mother’s lineage. That being said, I am also aware that not everyone is as fortunate as I am, to have such a strong, positive female influence in their lives. I also count myself beyond lucky that the men in my family have been secure enough to love, adore, and walk beside these women, blessed to be their chosen equals. Nevertheless, I will persist in helping those in my gender find their voice. I will persist in the “liberties and freedoms we hold so dear”. I will persist and “hold these truths to be self evident.” I will persist that we are “one nation… indivisible… with liberty and justice for all.” I will persist, and I will not be silenced.

�

Practicing mindfulness

By LAURA WELBORN

On my journey to be more mindful in my life I attended a mindfulness workshop.

Research is showing that our brain becomes stronger and gives us the ability to rewire when we practice mindful activities. In as little as eight weeks our brain becomes thicker and develops neuroplasticity.

So how do we train our brain?

By practicing.

When we walk and let our brain just enjoy the moment, when we focus and become more intentional in what we do and when we are non-judgmental and act with kindness and compassion. Ringing a bell in our mind is to pause before we speak and ask ourselves:

Is it true? The right time to speak? Helpful to others? Kind?

The most powerful weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another. Train your mind to see the good in everything.

Being positive and seeing the good does not mean ignoring the negative. Being positive and seeing the good means overcoming the negative. Next time you have a thought that is stressing you out, ask yourself these four questions that adapted from philosophical research by Alan Watts and Byron Katie:

Is this thought true? – This question can change your life. Be still and ask yourself if the thought you’re dealing with is true.

Can I be absolutely, 100 percent certain that it’s true? – This is another opportunity to open your mind and to go deeper into the unknown, to find the answers that live beneath what you think you know. Think about some contrasting possibilities beyond the narrow viewpoint of this one stressful thought.

How do I feel when I think this thought? – With this question, you begin to notice internal cause and effect. You can see that when you believe the thought, there is a disturbance that can range from mild discomfort to outright panic and fear. What do you feel? How do you treat the situation (or person) you’re thinking about, how do you treat yourself, when you believe that thought?

Who would I be, and what would I do differently, if I were not thinking this thought? – Imagine yourself in your situation (or in the presence of that person), without believing the thought. How would your life be different if you didn’t have the ability to even think this stressful thought? How would you feel? What else would you see? Which do you prefer – life with or without the thought? Which feels more peaceful and productive?

When you change your thoughts, you can choose your response and not react negatively to what we think is happening.

Stay tuned as I learn more about Mindfulness… Laura Welborn, Mediator

The Recorded Deed to Jerusalem

By EARL COX

Days after UNSC Resolution 2334 condemned Israeli settlements in the “occupied Palestinian territory” of Judea, Samaria and East Jerusalem as a “flagrant violation under international law” Jerusalem Mayor Nir Barkat issued a strong rebuke: The mayor and his planning-committee director announced the committee’s intent to approve building 618 previously planned housing units in East Jerusalem—a first step toward an additional 5,600 units in the city. “I’m not ever going to stop building. No construction will be stopped by me as mayor,” he said. While the Obama administration harmed its ally by strengthening its enemies, if President Trump holds to his promises perhaps things will change going forward but there is already talk of backpedaling.

Barkat is “politically correct” in the most positive sense of the phrase. He is also legally and historically correct. In property disputes over land ownership, lawyers search property records for deeds, liens and related issues in order to identify the real legal owner(s). They also use mandatory “discovery” to demand that the opposing party provide all relevant documents, inspections and depositions that pertain to the dispute. In the courtroom, the presiding judge determines whether the proceedings and evidence of both sides are represented in a fair and balanced way.

The U.S. abstention of Resolution 2334 and John Kerry’s specious rhetoric laying out his two-state agenda were mockeries of the these basic processes and premises of justice. As further evidence of’ the resolution’s shaky legal grounds, it conflicts with tenets of international law in the Palestine Mandate, UNSC Resolution 242, the Oslo Accords and Camp David Summit.

The Bible clearly defines ancient boundary lines and one of the oldest title deeds in the world is recorded in the Tanach, where King David purchased the future site of the Jewish Temple from Araunah the Jebusite for 600 gold shekels. David’s son, King Solomon built the First Temple on that site. There’s ample additional biblical, archeological, religious and historical evidence of Israel’s abiding connection to Jerusalem that pre-dates Palestinian claims. The Jews governed Israel for a thousand years, and lived there continuously for the past 3,300 years. According to Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs researcher Nadav Shragai, Jerusalem was the Jewish capital during that time, never a capital of any Arab or Islamic entity.

Despite Israel and the Jewish people’s deep and abiding historical, cultural and religious connection to Jerusalem, the Palestinians, who began to define themselves as a people only about 100 years ago, insist they will never sign a peace deal that does not include Israel’s surrender of East Jerusalem, including the Old City and the Temple Mount. (Under international law, this area is disputed, not “occupied.”) Meanwhile, the Palestinians continue to deny Israel’s right to exist and incite violence and terrorism against her. As Dr. Joel Fishman wrote, “It is simply not possible to build [a state] on a foundation of myth and ignorance.”

Mayor Barkat and many others rightly discerned the previous administration in Washington D.C. as being anti-Israel long before Resolution 2334 reared its ugly head. Over the past eight years the U.S. has pressured Israel to halt “illegal” Jewish construction in eastern Jerusalem. In recent years Barkat slammed the Obama Administration for criticizing Israel’s plans to expand the suburb of Ma'aleh Adumim—an effort to provide affordable housing in the over-crowded capitol. "I don't know of any city in the world whose regulator is the U.S. president," the mayor remarked. Efrat Mayor and pro-settler leader Oded Revivi added, “Israeli building policies are set in Jerusalem, not New York.” Based on the latest news reports, it now appears that the Trump Administration are starting to sideways waffle on the topic of settlements. Let’s hope these news reports are mistaken as they so often have been.

What country doesn’t have the right to its unified capital, and to develop and build it? I pray the Trump Administration will focus its efforts at the United Nations against terror and stand strong on Israel’s side against any and all attempts to delegitimize the only democracy in the Middle East.

Three Presidents and a possibility

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

The Carolinas have undisputed claim to three U.S. presidents and the possibility of a fourth. And as with all good southern stories intrigue is not lacking.

I have written about our seventh president, Andrew Jackson, a Democrat, before, and he was certainly born in the Carolinas - the question being, which one, North or South? Both states have people with strong feelings about their side of the line. He was born March 15, 1767, and served as president between 1829-1837. Jackson was also known as the first “Citizen President.”

Jackson earned the nickname of Old Hickory for good reason, life was hard, his father died when he was 2 and his mother died when he was 14. His military activity started in his early teens as a courier during the American Revolutionary War, at which time he was captured and abused by the British Army. It is said that he refused to blacken the boots of his British captures.

A young Jackson would eventually leave the Carolinas for Tennessee and in 1801 that he would be appointed Colonel in the Tennessee militia and his political life would begin. His journey to the White House is legendary and so are his two terms as president.

Jackson would make the Hermitage, near Nashville, Tenn., his home and he would die there peacefully at the age of 78.

It was during the Jackson Presidency that Arkansas and Michigan would join the Union.

Our 11th President, James K. Polk, also a Democrat, was born Nov. 2, 1795, in Mecklenburg County, N.C. He served as president from 1845-1849.

Unlike President Jackson, President Polk had the benefit of a strong father and mother that inspired the values of patriotism, religious faith and a strong interest in politics.

At the age of 11, the Polk family homestead was sold and they moved to join his grandfather in Tennessee. Polk would return to North Carolina in January 1816 as a sophomore admitted to the University of North Carolina which at the time was a school with around 80 students. Polk would graduate with honors May 1818.

After graduation Polk returned to Nashville to study law and over the next few years he would serve in a variety of ways and would run for and win the seat for U.S. House of Representatives for Tennessee’s 6th congressional District in 1825, in 1827 Polk was reelected to congress.

It was in 1828 that Jackson ran for President again, Polk would advise Jackson on campaign matters and after the Jackson victory Polk would support the new administrations position in Congress.

Polk would become Speaker of the House where he would continue to work for the Jackson policies. Polk worked to create a more peaceful environment in the House and unlike Jackson and many others he never challenged anyone to a duel for insulting his honor. Polk is the only U.S. President to have served as Speaker of the U.S.p House of Representatives.

Polk would leave Washington for a while and serve as Tennessee Governor from Oct. 14, 1839 – October 15, 1841.

After an interesting campaign and commitment to only serve one term, James K. Polk would return to Washington and become the 11th president of the United States on March 4, 1845 at the age of 49, the youngest president of his time.

After his term as President he returned to Tennessee and died of cholera only three months later June 15, 1849.

During his term as President the states of Texas, Iowa and Wisconsin joined the union.

Our 17th President, Andrew Johnson, still another Democrat, was born December 29, 1808 in Raleigh. He served as president from 1865-1869. Johnson differed from President Jackson and President Polk as he did not run for the office of President of the United States and he did not pursue a law or military career.

Johnson was on the Lincoln ticket as Vice President and assumed the office because of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

His family was poor and he started out as an apprentice to a tailor in 1822. While he was still 17, he set out for Tennessee and in 1827 he married 16-year-old Eliza McCardle, who was the daughter of a local cobbler in Greenville Tenn. It would be his new wife that would teach Johnson how to read and write.

Johnson’s public service and political career started as an Alderman in 1803 and then Mayor of Greenville Tenn., then he served in the U.S. House of Representatives and went on to be elected Governor of Tennessee from 1853-1857.

In 1864 President Lincoln, would make a change from the Republican party and run for reelection under the National Union Party. Johnson was added to the ballot for Vice President and the campaign would turn in Lincoln’s favor later in September. Lincoln defeated George McClellan in the November 1864, electon.

Johnson would be sworn in as vice president on March 4, 1865. Vice President Johnson would become President Johnson on April 15, 1865.

With the end of the Civil War and being faced with Reconstruction and the mending of a nation President Johnson would have few days that were less then enormously challenging.

On Feb. 24, 1868, President Johnson, would become the first U.S. President to face impeachment proceedings. He was charged with violations of the Tenure of Office Act. Johnson was successful in maneuvering for an acquittal and after three months, it was close, with only one vote in his favor that lead to a not guilty ruling. President Johnson was acquitted; however, he was unable to secure the Democrats presidential nomination in 1868.

During the Johnson Presidency, Nebraska would join the Union.

The Abraham Lincoln National Historical Park is in LaRue County, Ky. It is stated that Abraham Lincoln was born there in a one room log cabin on Feb. 12, 1809. However, that is not the only location that claims to be the birth place of Abraham Lincoln.

We discovered The Bostic Lincoln Center in Rutherford County NC and it is their opinion that there is evidence that the 16th President of the United States may have been born on Puzzle Creek in Rutherford County, N.C.

As the story goes a woman by the name of Nancy Hanks (Lincoln’s mother’s name) was a “bound out” servant girl to the Abraham Enloe family in Rutherford County. It is said that while in care of the Enloe’s, Nancy would become pregnant and Enloe’s wife suspected that her husband may have been the cause of the new development.

In short, things become very stressful for everyone involved. Abraham Enloe’s wife’s anger increased with the birth of the Nancy’s boy child. Wanting to find peace Abraham struck a deal with Tom Lincoln, for $500, to take Nancy Hanks and the boy child away.

The question of President Lincoln’s place of birth and his real father has been subject of conversation and debate from a time before his presidency.

We do have a Carolina link to Lincoln that seems to be undisputed. The presidential couple who were together for almost 50 years, Andrew Johnson and Eliza McCardle, were married by Justice of the Peace Mordecai Lincoln, first cousin to Thomas Lincoln. That’s right Abraham Lincoln’s father, Maybe

Carl White is the executive producer and host of the award winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In the Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its seventh year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte viewing market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturdays at 12 noon. For more on the show visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com, You can email Carl White at [email protected].

0 notes

nonshedders · 7 years

Text

Plot Spoilers Abound!

Shakespeare?!

The History Plays!?

You can't be serious?!

I am. Write about that which you love, they say. Well, I just love these plays. They were, to the playhouse patrons of Elizabethan and Jacobean London, the HBO and Netflix dramas of their day. They were, first and foremost, commercial works, aimed to generate a profit. They were fictionalised dramas; adopting themes, developing characters, and scripted carefully to entertain, provoke and manipulate their audiences. And, loosely - very loosely - they were based on the origins and consequences of the conflict between the Houses of Lancaster and York.

And so, if we imagine that boxed-sets were available at the 17th Century Globe Theatre, the back wrapper may have read something like this:

King Richard II is an indecisive, self-centred, adult-child, who ascended the throne at the age of ten. Feted by the Court since childhood, Richard has grown to adulthood with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, and no concept of self-discipline. A disappointment to the great promise of his lineage, Richard has surrounded himself by sycophants, and squandered his personal wealth, leading to increased taxes on his subjects. He is resented by the commons, and disrespected by the nobility.

When Richard's powerful and wealthy uncle, John the Duke of Lancaster, (John of Gaunt), dies, Richard seizes Gaunt's immense wealth for himself. Gaunt's eldest son and heir, Henry Bolingbroke, already harbours reason for enmity towards the King. Bolingbroke had been banished from England by the King prior to his father's death. And now, driven by that enmity and a strong sense of injustice, he plans to return to England and claim back his rightful inheritance.

Bolingbroke is everything Richard is not. He is greatly admired by the commons, and deeply respected by the nobility. And Bolingbroke, being also directly descended from Edward III, has a claim to the throne.

Bolingbroke's original intent, to simply claim back his Dukedom, is tested by the despair with which he views Richard's England, and also by Bolingbroke's immense popularity with Richard's subjects. He claims his Dukedom - and then the throne; usurping Richard and ascending as King Henry IV.

Although popularly acclaimed as King, divisions and resentment remain in the Kingdom, and Richard's death has not only stained Henry's reputation, but eroded his own certainty in his divine right as King. Meanwhile, King Henry's eldest son, Prince Hal, has a reputation as a wastrel and an associate of men of disrepute, most particularly the scoundrel, John Falstaff. Upon who does Prince Hal model himself: his father the King, or his de-facto father, Falstaff?

Dissension turns to rebellion in the north, and Henry is challenged by the Duke of Northumberland and his son, Henry Percy (Hotspur). King Henry openly bemoans the cruel fate which sees Northumberland blessed with such a heroic and worthy son as Hotspur, while the King sees "riot and dishonour stain the brow" of his young Harry. Prince Hal and Hotspur meet in battle at Shrewsbury, where Hotspur is slain. King Henry IV retains his kingdom, but loses his health, and goes to his death doubting the capacity of his heir, Prince Hal - now King Henry V. Falstaff, expecting great favour from the new King, is coldly rebuffed by his now regal former associate: "I know thee not, old man ... Presume not that I am the thing I was".

And indeed, he is not. King Henry V is the warrior King, who hammers the French into submission at Hafluer, before leading the exhausted and vastly out-numbered English forces in a famous speech, and to a famous victory, against the French at Agincourt. When he firmly establishes himself as the undisputed monarch of England and France, English supremacy seems assured. Yet King Henry's reign is ended by illness at a young age, and the crown passes to his infant son, King Henry VI.

England, again, experiences a minority monarch, and the nobles jostle for dominance. France seizes the opportunity to reassert its own sovereignty, assisted by the self-proclaimed agent of Heaven, Joan la Pucelle (Joan of Arc). The loss of territory in France inflames the divisions in the English court, a situation perfectly described by Lord Exeter: "'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division; There comes the rain, there begins confusion."

The Duke of Suffolk, having seen the power wielded by the Lord Protector, Gloucester, plans to undo the Protector and seize control of the throne. He does so by wooing Margaret of Anjou to adopt the roles of wife of King Henry, as well as mistress of Suffolk. Thus, in his own words: "Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king and realm."

Suffolk's manipulation of the King riles Richard, Duke of York, who openly proclaims his right to the throne; claiming that his direct lineage would be kings, but for the usurpation by King Henry's grandfather. York is supported by the Earl of Warwick, "the Kingmaker", and thus the kingdom, again, falls into dissension and rebellion. The weak King is coerced into formal recognition of Richard of York as his heir, effectively disinheriting the King's own son. Queen Margaret is outraged, and spurs her supporters within the House of Lancaster into open civil war with the Yorkists. When the forces of Queen Margaret cruelly taunt and murder Richard, Duke of York, the Yorkists are provoked to their own righteous outrage, and the die is cast in the fight for supremacy between the houses of Lancaster and York, now led by Richard's eldest son, Edward of York. King Henry is captured and imprisoned in the Tower. Margaret and her son, Prince Edward, flee to France. The Yorkists prevail, and Edward of York succeeds as King Edward IV.

But Edward's hasty and secret marriage to Margaret Woodville causes dissension within his own house, most disastrously with Warwick, who hears of the marriage whilst in France negotiating the marriage of Edward to the sister of the French Queen. So aggrieved is Warwick by this betrayal, that he abandons all allegiance to the House of York and swears to aid Queen Margaret in her quest to have her son recognised as the King of England.

Margaret, Warwick and Edward of Lancaster return to England to garner forces to overthrow King Edward IV. At the Battle of Tewkesbury the future of the House of Lancaster is extinguished when Edward of York and his brothers, George, Duke of Clarence and Richard, Duke of Gloucester, take their revenge for the murder of their father by slaying Prince Edward of Lancaster before his mother's eyes.

York is victorious. The winter of discontent is made summer.

But the evil and misshapen Richard, Duke of Gloucester, has clearly stated his ambition. "I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown." And so, King Edward IV is undermined by the duplicitous "support" of his younger brother. When King Edward falls ill and dies, his teenage son is briefly proclaimed King Edward V, but before any coronation can be arranged, Gloucester, assisted by his "second self", The Duke of Buckingham, manages to discredit, murder or disappear all claimants between the throne and himself, finally emerging as King Richard III.

Once King Richard has achieved his ambition, his great affection and reliance for Buckingham is replaced by disdain. Buckingham switches allegiance to Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a direct descendent of John of Gaunt and claimant of the throne of England. Meanwhile, Richard, in a bid to reinforce his royal credentials, poisons his wife and sets his sights on his niece, Elizabeth of York, the heir of the former King Edward. But before the betrothal can be realised, rebellion boils over in the form of an invasion by Richmond. They eventually meet in the Battle of Bosworth Field.

The night before the battle, Richard is visited, and clearly distressed, by the ghosts of those who have died in his quest for the crown: "Shadows tonight have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers".

During the battle, King Richard is unhorsed, then slain by Richmond, who is subsequently crowned King Henry VII. The first act of the new king is to proclaim a pardon to the defeated soldiers, declaring, "We will unite the white rose with the red: smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, that hath long frowned upon their enmity".

1 note · View note