Sex, Religion, Politics — Conversation, Anyone?

Sex, religion, politics – funny how the most interesting topics are the ones we’re not supposed to address in polite company, that is, if we’re determined to keep things polite.

Tea time -- so refined, so socially acceptable, so NOT the place to discuss certain things. Tea by the Sea by Steve Henderson

While most of the time I am prosaically non-confrontational, I jumped into a social media forum last week with less than my usual diplomatic aplomb, but seriously, the other guy started it.

(By the way, if you’re my mother and you don’t understand what I did, it’s as if I were passing by a group of people, overheard a total stranger’s comment to a distant acquaintance, and stuck my mouth in.)

I’d like to know if any of you could have resisted:

“I don’t know,” the guy moaned. “I don’t really have any opinion on any of the candidates or anything and I’m not up on any of the issues and I don’t know if I’ll get around to it, but if I ever do decide to vote, I’ll do it on Biblical principles.”

This guy is scary. Whatever Biblical principles he was nominally thinking of, I’m sure the average atheist would agree that they don’t encompass apathetic witlessness and passive illiteracy of oblivious thought, the latter an activity I engaged in when my fingers moved faster than my brain synapses to type:

“A major Biblical principle is to love your neighbor as yourself, and any politician who promises to stay out of our lives and let us live and let live is probably as close to Biblical principles as you can hope to get,” or something like that.

Is there anything so wrong with the concept that a man's -- or a woman's -- home is his -- or her -- castle, and they can live in it without undue interference from other, generally governmental, bodies? Bayside by Steve Henderson

I don’t deny that I calculatingly tossed in that gauntlet, and it was no surprise when a sweetly religious woman lassoed me with a series of Bible verses, tying me up and trussing me like a chicken, but not so tightly that I couldn’t tap out a few gasping thoughts.

Do I never learn?

Within minutes she was back, shards of glass embedded in the rope this time, pretty much garroting me with a select choice of verses and her appropriate interpretations, forcefully instructing me that “live and let live” is not a phrase to be found in the Bible (I know that), unequivacobly bringing the “conversation” to a close with,

“This has been a nice discussion and God bless.”

I am eternally grateful – no pun intended – that I encountered and made my decision about Christianity before meeting people like this.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying that Christians need to be in politics, or that they don’t need to be in politics, I’m saying that if people are going to take Christians seriously – in the political, social, commercial, private, and public arenas – then Christians need to be serious about

1)      Thinking

2)      Listening to the ideas of others

3)      Responding with grace and humility

4)      Recognizing that we can disagree and promote our opinions without resorting to beating people into submission with words, platitudes and Bible verses

5)      Accepting that it’s not our job to change the world, but in the lifelong process of allowing Christ to change and shape us, we will manage to do so despite ourselves

You can't change other people. You can only change yourself, and even that takes a lot of time. Time Out by Steve Henderson

“God bless” is not a salutation or a sign off but a heartfelt wish for the wellbeing of the recipient’s soul, and it’s not very convincing coming from someone who has just made us feel small, unimportant, injudicious and irresponsible. End of conversation. This has been nice. God bless us all.

And social media sites are not the best platform for connecting with people – beyond a hopelessly superficial level – on key issues like sex, religion, and politics.

I wonder how long it will be before I grow up and learn this?

The Grown-Up World of Make Believe

Movies aren’t real.

While ostensibly, most grownups agree on this, we frequently don’t act as if we do. It’s not so much that we look over our shoulders for zombies or vampires as that we gaze at our bathroom scales, willing the needle to move to the left. From that point we advance to the mirror and pull back the skin around our eyes. Then the bravest of us step back, turn to the side, suck in, and peer quickly at the result. Gwyneth Paltrow? Nah. Matt Damon? Yeah, right.

If we watch too many movies, we forget that we real people actually live colorful, beautiful lives, with our own roads to travel. Country Road by Steve Henderson

In the movies, all normal people are skinny and young. Sometimes, when a movie wants to be grittily authentic and show actual real people like the residents of Iowa, say, they make the actor gain weight, change the hairstyle to something flat and lifeless, dress in sloppy clothes. This, it is understood, is reality. But most of the time, they feed us skinny and young with thick glasses and sweatpants, who later metamorphosize into ordinary office workers in contacts, short leather skirts, and stiletto heels that amazingly do not preclude performing martial art feats.

Regardless of whether they are falling in love or being chased by rogue federal agents, the skinny and young, airbrushed and Botoxed, characters of the movies hold down ordinary jobs as magazine writers (do you know anyone who works for a real magazine?), although they never actually spend any time in the office. Regardless, they’re paid well, judging from the size of their New York apartments – all with views – most of which are larger than our houses, and certainly better appointed.

In real life, this view is in Zion National Park, Utah, but in a movie it could be outside a New York apartment. Last Light in Zion by Steve Henderson

Everything they do looks cool, which isn’t surprising because they’re young, or made to look that way, and skinny and rich and well dressed and continuously surrounded by background music. Most people, when they text, look kind of silly, but not these people, because they can text with one hand, while ice skating, and with a few button pushes they manage to access interior state department satellite sites closed off to the rest of us.

Car crashes are no big deal, actually multiple car crashes generally ending by flying through the air into the water. But that’s okay because our skinny, young protagonist can hold her breath for six minutes. (I should clarify: females are skinny; males are buff, and even if they are accountants or insurance agents, they manage to casually rip off that dress shirt and flex.)

They down whiskey like water; never exercise; speak multiple and obscure foreign languages; and number their close, really close, friends in the dozens.

None of this would be a problem if we truly separated reality – the jobs we go to, the people we see, the bills we pay, all done without background music – from the imaginary world of made up stories played by people whose primary job is to exercise for hours, eat very little, and never go out in the street without bodyguards, nannies, or make-up.

Movies are pretend. Actors are people who pretend well. The two provide entertainment, respite from our real world of unemployment, insecure bosses, rude customers, broken down appliances, anemic bank accounts, overflowing toilets – the boring stuff that make up our everyday, difficult yet beautiful lives.

Let’s give ourselves a break. Take a walk, by yourself, with a friend. Sit around the table and eat with your family. Read a book, pet the dog, write a letter, call your mom, learn to knit, close your eyes and just daydream.

Real cowboys exist in real life. They probably don't call people "pardner." Time out by Steve Henderson

Then, when you get bored, consider watching a movie. But make it a good one that afterwards makes you feel good about being yourself and living your life, and not wishing that you were living the life of someone else, someone who doesn’t actually exist.

Trickling Economics

Well, gosh Beave. Since everyone else is talking about economics these days, it’s time for me to throw my (gorgeous, handknitted) hat in the ring. While I do realize that I’m not a lettered expert in the subject, considering where the experts are getting us these days, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

While I love being in the midst of nature, there aren't a lot of people out there, so I do a lot of my networking in the grocery store. Last Light in Zion by Steve Henderson

Today’s pontifications originate in the grocery store, my preferred locale of random human intereaction, where I fell into conversation with a woman who mentioned a new eatery in town.

“Oh, the prices are reasonable,” she assured me. “A half-sandwich, a piece of fruit, and beverage came to just over seven dollars.”

Maybe it had something to do with my surroundings, but I’m thinking that I could slap some deli lunch meat on a piece of bread, grab an apple, do my teeth a favor by skipping the pop, and have several dollars left over for the “I need more yarn because I never have enough” fund.

Does this sound weird to you?

I ask because, through the years, we get incredulous looks from people when we admit that no, we haven’t tried out the new pizza place. We make soup from scratch. Haven’t seen the latest movie yet because we can easily wait nine months and rent the DVD, which by that time won’t be assessed New Feature charges any more.

“Don’t you people live?” we are constantly asked.

“Don’t you people budget?” I have always wanted to retort, with that sweet, gentle smile of mine.

Bill and I just don't fly around in the same circles -- there are far fewer empty pizza carryout boxes in our trash than there are in his. Heading Home by Steve Henderson

It is fundamental reality that most of us are not related to Bill Gates — unless you want to go all the way back to Adam and Eve, but I don’t think Bill takes this seriously — and we operate under limited funds, the majority of which are already designated for property/income/payroll/sales taxes, auto/life/health/insurance payments, utility bills and their roster of attendant fees, gasoline, the monthly mortgage, and dog food. Are we having fun yet?

What’s left over we splurge on stuff like prescription glasses, a visit from the plumber, four new tires, and light bulbs for the bathroom.

Oh, and there’s food.

While I don’t go around asking other people what they make, I do hear complaints about how it never goes far enough, and I am properly sympathetic — because of that tax, fee, and insurance premium thing — until I notice the year, model, and number of vehicles they drive; the quantity of empty carryout boxes spilling from their overflowing garbage can; the regular garbage bags of really nice clothes that they pass on to our tribe not because their own progeny has outgrown them, but because the stripe on the side is a different color this season.

I understand the desire to have new, fun stuff, and if we weren’t already obligated to pay for demanding intangibles that we can’t see or really enjoy, then I’d probably splurge on more of it, but with the little bit we have left over, we make soup, setting aside funds — for emergencies, for a highly anticipated family outing, for an automobile purchase five years in the future. We try hard not to be judgmental, but at the same time, we find it hard to be sympathetic when the same people who call us boring moan because their hours got cut down, and they’re seriously considering cutting cable TV. (Our TV, a cast-off, lies silent until 99 cent DVD Thursdays.)

This is economics: most of what we make is taken up by purchases that do not directly benefit our daily lives.

Much of our paycheck is pre-designated to areas that have no direct impact upon our daily lives. Summer Breeze by Steve Henderson

Because individuals — unlike government — cannot create more money out of nothing, we are forced to make do with what we have, meaning that

1) We can’t buy everything we see, but

2) We can still have special, beautiful things if

3) We don’t fritter it all away in little increments first.

The Frugal Fanatic

Saving money and living green are so cool these days. So why isn’t it cool when I do it?

Sometimes this frugality thing goes too far.

So says the Son and Heir, who is singularly unimpressed by the toys I magically create for Toddler out of nothing (“junk” he calls it), but maybe he’s just irritable because it’s his job to take the trash out each week.

It's not junk, it's stuff, admittedly not as cool as the stuff in this painting, but cool in its own way. Out of Africa by Steve Henderson

My latest conception — a tambourine and a drum and an interactive puzzle – which to the uninitiated looks like six used thread spools rattling around in an empty 50-CD disc holder, kept the child entertained for, well, a good 45 seconds, which isn’t bad considering that the average $20 purchase at the box store lasts 10 seconds longer than that.

When you remove the thread spools from the CD case and if you aren’t too particular about authenticity, you now have great little people for the doll house. On another day, they’re aliens.

My fascination with plastic products stretches back decades, when my childhood bath time companion was an empty dish detergent bottle that, except for the spout at the top which was disappointingly too small for a head, looked like a lady in a white dress. When she wore out or ripped or caved in beyond repair, another was always ready to take her place, and sometimes, when there were two at a time, I had a jolly tea for three.

Me, and two empty Ivory dishwashing soap bottles makes three. I think I like grown-up tea sets better. Tea by the Sea by Steve Henderson

While on the one hand this stuff is garbage, think about it for a minute: if you were alive in 1365 and carted your macaroni and cheese around in ceramic pots and someone handed you an old, bright yellow margarine tub with a lid, wouldn’t you get excited? It’s lightweight, doesn’t break, and seals in freshness. What’s not to like?

My preponderant weakness is for the metal canisters that hold flavored coffee – small, cute, modular – every time I see an empty one of these I think, “There’s surely got to be something that we could do with these things.”

I must frequently speak the sentiment aloud because the Norwegian Artist, while he can’t effectively cross the street to evade me, does avoid eye contact when I pick up the empty boxes and eye them.

“No,” he has lately taken to saying, circumventing the issue before it becomes one. “I can’t use them in the studio, paint tubes won’t stack in them, brushes would fall out, I don’t use crayons, and I can’t see any possible reason why I want or need them.”

Once in frustration he counterattacked: “Why don’t you see if you can use them in the sewing room?”

Not a bad idea, that, only I couldn’t find anything to fit in them other than used thread spools, and I’ve already got that one covered.

So with a sigh I throw them away.

Whether it's a plastic coffee tub or ancient pottery -- it's still a container. Chimu by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

The other day someone gave us a flavored coffee box of monumental proportions, and while it’s not metal, it does have a lid, and it sure looks like something you’d put things in after the coffee powder is gone.

Do you remember the Winnie the Pooh story about Eeyore’s birthday present, in which the sad little donkey spends a pleasurable afternoon dropping a broken balloon into an old honey pot, and pulling it out again?

Everybody thinks that Eeyore is cute. Pathetic, but cute.

But I’ve got it, and the Norwegian doesn’t have to panic, because the box is the perfect size to hold a stack of empty 6-ounce yogurt cups, which everyone knows make great drinking glasses.

The paintings in all of my posts are by my Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson, and they are available as originals,  as well as archival quality limited editions of various sizes and prices at Steve Henderson Fine Art.

Valentine’s Day

Considering that the holiday is all about love, there are a lot of people who hate Valentine’s Day — namely, single people who wish they weren’t so and don’t appreciate being aggressively reminded of it for the next two weeks.

Some days find us sailing alone, miles away from anything that looks like a romantic relationship. Becalmed by Steve Henderson

In my long ago college days, my dorm room overlooked a courtyard that was regularly filled with courting, and necking, and snuggling, and irritatingly happy couples, and while I sat at my desk, composing vitally important analyses of obscure 14th century poems, I understandably looked away from the task to think about something, anything, else, only to watch an endlessly changing Chick Flick unfold just outside my window.

I swear that I was the only person on that university campus to not be involved in a romantic relationship.

My mother, being a mother, understood my feelings, and two days before Valentine’s Day, a care package filled with chocolate arrived. While an extra dose of calories to the existing Freshman 15 wasn’t necessarily the answer to my angst, it salved my soul, as well as substantiated in my own life the tradition that my mother had started years before:

“Valentine’s Day isn’t just for couples,” she told us, her brood. “It’s for everyone who loves one another.”

And so, in 3rd grade and high school, although I found myself unfettered by the romantic attractions of a 9-year-old or recently licensed stud, I was never bereft on Valentine’s Day, receiving, from my mother, a card, a small gift, some chocolate. While I would infinitely have preferred such gifts to be from a boy as opposed to, well, my mother, even my immature little mind could see beyond the obvious to the true:

Someone who loved me very much was doing what she could to get me through a painful time.

The older kids get, the more creative parents must be to tend to their wounds. Madonna and Toddler by Steve Henderson

I honestly don’t think my mother intended to start lasting traditions, but most of her ideas were so good that they can’t stop at one generation. While I did eventually go on to discover my Norwegian Artist on a white horse (actually, it was a yellow Datsun), it is ironic that we have never done the official Valentine Day thing — roses, chocolates, lobster and steak at a restaurant — because our first years were so mired in financial struggle that such an expenditure would have wiped out the grocery budget for a week.

But because I cook, and cook well, we celebrated, and since candles are cheap we could pretend we were in a fine restaurant, and when the kids came along we just set another plate at the table and made sure that there was enough dessert to go around. As the kids grew older they contributed to the dinner, and the day became less wrapped around Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara’s passionate kiss as it did just a bunch of people who really like one another, and really love one another, and get through this highly commercialized and over-hyped day by sharing it together.

Years ago, an older couple celebrating their anniversary invited the Norwegian and me to an exquisite restaurant in observation of their special day.

“But it’s your day,” we protested. “You should celebrate it alone.”

“Our friends and family are as much a part of our lives together as we are,” they replied. “It gives us joy to be with the people we care about.”

Sometimes, the important things and people in our lives are so regularly there, that we don't notice the way they tumble down to surround us. Stonework by Steve Henderson

Oddly, they’re not related to my mother, but they could have been — generous minds thinking alike.

May your Valentine’s Day be a truly happy one, surrounded by the people you love, reminded not of your relationship status but of the extraordinary friends and family who are there for you every day.

The Genius and Ingenuity in All of Us

Every time I flush the downstairs toilet, I think affectionately of my Norwegian Artist.

Life is made up of both the grand sweeping panoramas, like this hidden canyon, and the small things, like fixing the toilet. The Pataha by Steve Henderson

It’s not that he’s getting into installation art or anything, it’s that he knows the basics of fixing a toilet, which, while it may not rank with six-pack abs or rippling biceps on the sexiness thermometer, is way up there on the real life, I-like-living-with-this-guy scale.

The initial fix, after the handle broke off, involved fluorescent orange cord wrapped around one of the Toddler’s plastic blocks, creating a one of a kind pull toy until we got it through to the Toddler that this was not a porcelain product for her playtime use.

Then something happened with the inner sanctum of plastic and metal parts, resulting in a stream of living water that flowed into the holding tank and out of the holding tank but never into the bowl itself. A temporary fix was attained by removing the tank top so that we could manually adjust the parts, but I assure you that, while the Norwegian hoped that this would be a long-term temporary solution, I emphasized the temporary aspect of it over the long-term part.

While the obvious next step – replacing the entire toilet with a shiny new model – seems the simplest, complications arose because the Norwegian eventually wants to move the toilet to the opposite corner, where the claw foot bathtub now is, which will then move to where the not-quite-finished six-foot wide and all-the-way-to-the-ceiling towel and toiletries unit now stands; but that’s okay because the Norwegian will tear that out and build a new, smaller one where the corner shower is, because the corner shower will take the sink’s place, and the sink will rest in the toilet’s old spot.

Sand on the beach, clouds in the sky -- even the simple things in life are complicated. On the Horizon by Steve Henderson

So, replacing the toilet isn’t that simple.

You know, there’s no use having color coded towels and pretty soap in a bathroom whose toilet screams at every visitor, “Look inside!” While my love for the Norwegian Artist did not waver, the sigh I discharged upon entering the bathroom must have increased in forcefulness, because eventually he disappeared to the workshop, found an extra toilet and gutted its inner parts, then performed reconstructive surgery on the lavatory chinaware.

(By the way, parents, this is a great reason to encourage your children to play with blocks. It may look like they’re not doing much of anything now, but the skills they pick up will be invaluable to a future spouse.)

While I recognize that most people don’t have spare toilets in the workshop – we have spare everything in the workshop – they do have more ingenuity than they think, and if the spare weren’t an option, they, like the Norwegian, would raid more of the Toddler’s toys or the kitchen drawers to find what they needed to do to effect the repair.

While in some ways the world is different these days, certain things never change. Chief Joseph Mountain by Steve Henderson

“It’s a different world nowadays,” my mother likes to say, but in many ways, despite the smart phones and the notepads and the blue tooths that she doesn’t even bother to understand, we are finding ourselves back in a time that was familiar to her: the 1930s, with its Great Depression; the 1940s, with its wartime scarcity of resources; the 1950s, with its confidence to do the things that needed to be done.

Whether or not our Great Recession is officially over, and this depends upon what the pundits and the media want us to feel and believe, a lot of people are living on less these days, be it because they’ve lost their job or whether it’s because what money they do have sure doesn’t buy as much as it used to.

And we learn to make do.

It’s hard at first, because for so long the easiest solution involved sliding the debit card, but little by little, we are rediscovering the resourcefulness that we let slide. And along with saving money, we earn confidence in ourselves, our skills, our abilities, and our tenacity.

Rabid Right, Ludicrous Left — Prepare for the Election Year

“Joyously Abundant Products!”

Just bursting with joy, the catalog offered all sorts of promises and products. Dahlia Girl by Steve Henderson

Jumbled amongst the pile of paper pulp on my desk, the catalog caught my eye.

Great, I thought. Someone has sold our name to a religious organization.

I really should stop making these snap judgments – it’s not too late to make and break another New Year’s resolution after all. This particular group, while it was indeed religious, was more concerned with the Goddess, as in Mother Earth, as opposed The Masculine Guy. Oddly, though, much of the language was the same:

“We give thanks” – to God, to Mother Earth

“We must be good stewards” – of our financial resources (so we can tithe), of the planet (so we can breathe).

“Tap into the Life Force” – via prayer, or biodynamics.

Some of the pictures from the Joyous publication could have been lifted from Sunday school materials – my favorite was a group of people, sitting at a long, food-laden table under the trees –holding hands while they gave thanks.

You don't have to be religious to give thanks for good food and good things; we can all be grateful. Polish Pottery by Steve Henderson

Looked like an outside church service to me.

I guess I find this intriguing because this is an election year, during which much will be said about the Rabid, Radical Religious Right, a frightening force of fanatical fundamentalists whose goal is to take over this country and turn it into a Puritanical paradise.

And yet, these people had nothing to do with a major city’s recent decision to ban plastic bags at grocery stores, forcing shoppers to pay for woven synthetic (read: tough plastic) “eco-friendly” products. Those who choose paper bags – which are made from trees, a renewable resource, by the way – are assessed 5 cents each. Agitators in the city are striving to make the ban statewide.

“We’re out to save our planet,” proponents say.

And your polar opposites are out to save your souls.

Both of you get in people’s faces.

It's cold 25 feet from the doorway, and you definitely know that you're outside. Ridgetop View by Steve Henderson

Although I don’t smoke and I’m happy to not deal with people’s lip-kissed dross on the ground and occasionally in ash trays, I extend compassion to shivering workers taking their break out in the alley and 25 feet away from the door – in compliance with state law.

“People shouldn’t smoke,” proponents say. “The law discourages them from doing so.”

A generation ago, many religious people considered smoking a sin, but they never passed a law banning it.

Much as none of us want to live in a Puritanical world of somber, black garbed deacons and deaconesses (and by the way, most religious people aren’t this way), the opposite, which isn’t as opposite as it seems, and isn’t as far away as you think, is no better. Bureaucratic vicars and prelates who detachedly shuffle forms and administer regulations and assess fines for trespasses like providing raw milk to consumers who are asking for it, or transporting incandescent light bulbs over state lines (wait for it), or possessing an open bottle of wine in the trunk of the car, or glowering at a police officer (we don’t universally call them “peace officers” yet, do we?) are just as joyless, just as merciless, just as bad.

Far Right or Way Left – these are both bad directions, and interestingly, rather than move further apart as polar opposites, they share so many similarities in the way they seek to control other people’s lives that they actually amalgamate, as if they were on a circle as opposed to a line.

But most of us don’t belong to either group, because we’re not the principals trying to grasp the strings: we are the ordinary people in the center of the circle, bumping elbows and jostling one another because we’re humans and we don’t agree on everything, but we’re friends and co-workers and family members and even strangers who are willing to live, and let live.