Media Musings on “Marijuana”
Why do they call it that?
They don't call her sisters "blow" or "smack" or "ice," and yet they say "marijuana." No one else gets a slang term except her.
Not cannabis...marijuana
Do they do it to discredit? To continue the Reefer Madness?
She deserves respect. She deserves a proper name.
So call her what she is: cannabis.
The Drum of Eros
The best medicine is to be heard.
When a lover slides their fingers across the fiber of your soul and it crackles with divine energy,
When you burst through your armor and let your heartbeat echo into their bones,
When they finally sees the universe floating in your eye,
the Greek god Eros will pound his mighty drum and lift the sadness from your soul.
Fading
The only thing he saw was nothing. His eyes reached out into the abyss but found only darkness. His vision clawed at the thick swath of aether that seemed to somehow race toward him and yet fall away at the same time. Still the void persisted.
He had no tangible body, no grounding, no grasp of what or where he was. Descartes' iconic slogan rattling around his brain provided the only morsel of solace in this perplexing plane. 'Im thinking, therefore I exist...at least in some regard.'
A trickle of memories appeared:
A car accident.
A hospital bed.
A hazy blur of faces.
Perhaps this was the afterlife. But was it Heaven, Hell or Purgatory? Perhaps it was another dimension unbeknownst to humans. As he turned the question over, a minuscule white speck appeared in the distance. 'Light, what a relief,' he thought. The speck became a beam, no bigger than a pinhead, as it pierced through the pitch black. Perhaps this was the portal to salvation...
He squinted furiously, trying to make sense of this chaotic mindscape. The beam began to expand and seemed to engulf him, even though there was no him to engulf. As the light washed over his formless form, a tidal wave of memories smacked into his consciousness. Tidbits of his life whizzed past with terrifying speed. It all happened so fast that he could barely comprehend the insanity currently transpiring. He'd heard the phrase "life flashing before your eyes" before but had always imagined a pleasant slide show of memories. But this was a beast of a different breed. Every emotion he'd ever experienced had been condensed into a large cumbersome pill that he was supposed to dry swallow. It happened with such voracious speed that he wasn't sure if was actually real. 'Maybe I'm in a coma and will wake up soon to find that this was just a dream or a figment of my imagination.'
Just as he began to fondle the idea, a face a appeared before him. It had no skin, no bone and no flesh. It was hardly more than an outline carved into the dark. It's features carried a kind of masculinity; a prominent forehead, defined cheekbones, strong lips. It stared back at him for what seemed like an eternity before uttering two words: "let go."
At that moment, he felt himself begin to melt. He had no substance but his energy began to disband. He knew that this was the end to one life and the beginning of another. His thoughts, now reduced to smoldering embers, began to extinguish. The fear and concern were whisked away like dandelions seeds in the wind. Somehow everything made sense. Somehow everything was in its right place. As the last remnants of his existence disintegrated into the Cosmos, he felt one final message enter his consciousness:
"I don't know what else I expected."
Madre 1.6.55
“As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence actually liberates others.” ~Marianne Williamson
This is a fitting quote for today as it is the 60th birthday of my mother, Vicki Weeks. Perhaps the single greatest thing she has ever taught me is the ability to let my light shine ("light" was also my first word). Sometimes her light tries to take refuge beneath an exterior that has been beautifully callused by layers of experience. But this light's persistence cannot be contained. It always finds a way to push through the cracks in her soul's mighty armor.
Constructing any sort of coherent laudatory tribute to my mother has always been challenging because no matter the quantity nor quality of my words, I know that they will be unable to accurately portray her radiance. I also hold myself back in order to prevent the bitter sting of loss from nipping at the heels of the ones whose eyes will fall upon these words; some have lost their mothers (including my mom). In this case, however, I will accept the inevitability of pain with the knowledge that my attempt may create a ripple of joy in her mind. And so I let the words spill forth from my fingertips for the one who created me.
My mother has taught me to be bold, kind, selfless, gentle, strong, caring. She has nurtured, protected, disciplined, encouraged, supported, loved. The experience of growing up as the second youngest of three brothers and two sisters taught her to be grateful for what she has but to also fight for her dreams. She has traversed the globe with the brazen spirit of an albatross and yet thrives in her den like a slumbering lioness. Her spirit is imbued with a dedication to eradicating the world's darkness. And she does this by letting her light shine.
She knows just what to say when I'm dwelling in the doldrums. She can find the courage to say what is not always popular but necessary. She knows when to be absurdly playful and when to be pragmatic. She is both my shepherd who guides me and the sheep whose wool supplies me with a bounty of comfort.
The Buddha once said, "Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared." Countless roaring fires have been lit by my mother's candle, and countless more to come. Even though we may be worlds apart, my heart's roaring fire will forever burn in the soothing company of yours.
Te amo, madre. Gracias para todo.
God’s Wife Must Be Pissed
If there is a God and this deity happens to be a man, his wife must be pissed.
God claims to be the Creator but that's highly illogical. Man cannot create life on his own just as a woman cannot impregnate another woman (at least not in the traditional sense). Surely this male God can contribute to the process, but He cannot be the sole Creator.
Don't you think He seems to be taking credit for an awful lot?
How would you feel if you were building a castle by meticulously constructing the walls, digging the moat and forging the iron gates only to have somebody waltz up, etch their seal into your hand carved stone blocks and call it their own?
I imagine this is how God's wife feels. Here she is pushing the galaxies through her womb and her husband claims it was his doing.
Come on, God. Don't be ridiculous.
The Sun Bear Inside
I remember the exact moment that my mind starting seeing it as a prison.
Going to the zoo used to be an amusing venture. My fascination with animals used to make the journey inside its looming metal gates a joyful one. The quick forays into what fauna graced the other side of the planet didn't used to yield visceral feelings of rage, shame and sympathy like they do now. The animals seemed more like hotel guests than prisoners, getting pampered as they lounged the days away.
But one day I visited the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle and saw it's tortured underbelly.
I walked up to the rail of the sun bear exhibit, hardly more than a classroom-sized space haphazardly strewn with sparse vegetation and fake rocks. The only thing separating the bear from the bystanders was a trough about 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep. My eyes scanned the poorly conceived habitat for the elusive occupant. Sun bears get their name from the large crescent shaped patches of golden fur than adorn their chests. I had never seen a bear in real life before, much less a sun bear, a creature who's very name inspires mythical might. My eyeballs kept scanning for any sign of movement. Still nothing. After a few minutes, my minuscule attention span grew weary from disappointment, and I started to shuffle away.
As I turned to leave, a flash of gold sparkled in the sunlight. My head whipped around and my starved eyes begged for another glance. Then I saw the brown blur move again. It was zipping back and forth between the two ends of its cage, pacing frantically. And at that moment, I became heavy with sadness. The bear's broken soul lay before me, crushed by containment and riddled with anxiety.
This bear was no second generation zoo baby who has no concept of freedom. You could smell the wild on it. But confine a majestic beast to a cage, and it is destined to deteriorate.
Stories like this one squirm beneath my fingernails. They are my army of sun bears nervously stomping around in the hopes that it will lead to their release. Sometimes it works. They are not bound to an eternity of confinement unlike their ferocious fleshy brethren.
We're trying to escape this prison together. We're trying to leap right over that trough and begin clobbering unsuspecting bystanders with clawing paws and salivating jaws. Maybe someday we can turn this jail cell into a jungle.