Each time it is a border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”
I am discovering my story,
remembering where I have
been, but I recall it as
a
border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”
© 2018, Paul Brookes
archaic or dialect question, in appropriate. a lowly start
with slight misgivings, i come arrived from the country, an immigrant
here.
if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely. a safe bet in that
something grows decently.
do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty? mine was
white last year,
now nothing germinates.
the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant. forgive me, this is the second
time. this time,
i shall stay.
despite my nationality.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
‘i came from another country, you know,
some time ago. i lived in the jungle’
yes.
‘i have been here so long, i feel i belong’
yes.
‘ they call me an immigrant’
said the bear, sadly.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
wednesday, the shops shut early.
here.
there are still tourists around.
or new people. i bought some sweets,
a thimble,a packet of screws, one
light bulb.
chatted about face book in the mongers.
i moved here in 1993. I am an immigrant.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?
twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.
shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.
these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.
we came from the sea.
so let us move things about.
cloth by cloth.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
grandma came from malta, or was it
gibraltar, anyhow dad was very dark.
his hair remained so, with help and support.
i came from england to live here with you
#thebear.
also from another country.
i hear there is trouble in the village.
yes. i am scared they will shout
and say go home.
another country.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
…..(Raanana, January 10, 2018)
A multiplication table,
Two times two is four,
She could read a multiplication table
And you’d swear it was poetry
But when she’d read you her own poem
It’d sound like her skin was torn from her soul,
Like she’d invented meaning in your mind.
She was a visitor,
She didn’t come from here.
© 2018, Mike Stone
…..(Raanana, January 30, 2018)
O Whippoorwill, O Whippoorwill,
I alone do hear your plaint.
It comes from deep inside my breast,
Would that I could let it out
To fly free singing,
But no such birds exist here
In the promised land.
Note: This poem expresses how I often feel as an American-expat-Israeli-immigrant in Israel.
© 2018, Mike Stone
…..((an alternate plaque for our Statue of Liberty))
…..(Raanana, February 16, 2018)
What have I done
What
have
I
done
to warrant these insults and injuries
to our once rich lands,
our once free skies,
and our once clear waters?
You’ve stripped me of my soil,
you’ve fouled my air,
and you’ve diverted and poisoned my waters.
Have you found another land,
another sky,
or another water to love?
Or have you no soul anymore
to love any land,
any sky,
or any lake or river?
Take what you will from me
then leave me alone
and I will recover without you
but what will you do without me?
What
will you
do without
me?
[Note: This poem is addressed, not to fresh-off-the-boat-or-plane immigrants, but to those who have forgotten that they are immigrants and take their country for granted.]
© 2018, Mike Stone
Born in Srinagar Kashmir, migrated to adopted country Pakistan in 1950 with my mother and sister..travelling in a refugee convoy, escorted by soldiers crossed the border at Sialkot.
Title: Partition
(Inspired by T S Eliot )
August is the cruelest month, bare branches
Sprouting tiny greens,
life bursting from the lifeless,
A rising,
mixing sorrow of defeat with defiance,
Spring rain drizzles consistently,
snow suddenly surprised us
We stopped in the plains,
leaving the mountains’
Went in half daylight so we should have
Known the path,
and the unknown traversed rarely,
So we should have known the faith,
and the faithful and the Emperors of Ice creams-
Not long ago, when I was a child,
was carried across borders
frightened, slept in a camp for two nights,
-wonder how Mother felt? She never spoke
About those days, then on we
came to Murree Hills, and felt free
And I knew not, was I taking refuge or was it a
New land?
What was left in enemy hands, where
Are the roots that make a family?
Out of the masses who survived who committed
Suicide-you cannot say or guess even for you
Have seen only images and heard only broken voices
Who lost half the thought in trying to forget
Spoke not all-scenes of horror
Heaps of bodies cut and slayed
Blood splattered on trains roads and fields
Death, for a cause? Yet not so or was it?
Many went South, separated, lost, confused-
All said ‘we shall go back, one day’
The Day never came-
And then the beginning of the end-
One by one
Who has seen Spring again, after the Fall
Providence persists prevails
Acceptance and non-acceptance is, what ails
Unreal cities, unreal people, so unlike what
Was expected-
War War War and again War-
When will it end, fear strikes within
Shelter is scarce, fashion abounds and all
Is a show off! Young dead glorified
on the mini screen, what are they dying for
now? Half the barren land, minerals in ranges
The enemy changed and we thought ’this is Right-
People crowd the roads , daily beggars are children
And who said ‘we shall have enough, and peace”
Mountains and Rocks
Mountains are dangerous, no rocks will give
Shelter, there is no water, nor wells
A waste it becomes, filth in the drains overflowing
And the big man’ said’ we have worked hard’
But the mountains will not protect,
Truth is linked , Faith is strong
It will not be long when the Shadow
Will turn to Light and the darkness will go-
Go in the shadow of the mountain
Sit by the stream and clean all
The mind and soul, wash away to the sea
Impurity, or else be prepared to face,
a tsunami, or the jolts and shakes
there is still a chance-look! Be the Dance
not the dancer, in the circle of life
Come to a still point with Nature
Where nothing matters anymore-
Think and feel, help and heal, the needy
Feed the hungry, for I can see-there comes
Someone-keeps close and watches , ever present
Who leads us on unseen and the Third we say
Who helped us –its not our doing but The Mercy
Of The Merciful-
Bow bow bow –pray pray pray…
Welcome love from above , eternal peace will stay
© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar
Drop your weapons America!
And make your country great again.
The fact is the increase of reoccuring incidences of gun violence in America today is a symptom of a sick society’s dependency on weapons. A gun, a mechanism designed to cause harm, has become a central figure in the lives of too many Americans. And we are all paying the price for it.
More and more of our citizens are worshiping a piece of steel above God, family or vocation. I do understand why this has happened: In essence, God, family and vocation have eluded these forsaken people … and afterall we all need something to lean on.
For many, a gun is no longer a a tool, but a “crutch”. It is used primarily to alleviate a person’s insecurities, while falsely boosting confidence, self-esteem and personal power. Sound familiar? Sort of reminiscent of that Leonard Cohen song: “And everybody knows that you live forever Ah when you’ve done a line or two…” don’t you think?
Guns are the next “opiate” to hit the scene. And gun advocates and gun manufacturers are as irresponsible and as greedy as some doctors and the pharmaceutical industry are this country.
Today, in hospital emergency rooms all over America, sick people are being convinced: “You have the right to control your pain.” And in bars and at dinner tables around our nation, that same propaganda is pushed out sounding something like this: “You have a right to defend yourself.”
Unfortunately, people who are in spiritual and emotional pain are turning to their guns for relief and that relief comes in the form of violence. One day a man is praised for being a “great guy”, the next day … he has shot his wife. Same guy, with the same gun cabinet, with the same permit to carrry. He was never a problem before! Right?
Well here’s the problem: A gun as a “prop” doesn’t support a person’s personal growth. It is like giving a child who can’t swim a life jacket instead of teaching the child the skills he needs not to drown.
I know how to make America great again: Give up the “cruch” and challenge yourself to be stronger. Or encourage the people you love to be the best versions of themselves without their guns.
Do the unthinkable: Drop your weapon.
Written by Evelyn Augusto for Guns Don’t Save People Poets Do: Dueling with words to stop gun violence. 2018
“Cowardice asks the question – is it safe? Expediency asks the question – is it politic? Vanity asks the question – is it popular? But conscience asks the question – is it right? And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular; but one must take it because it is right.” Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. from his speech, A Proper Sense of Priorities, February 6, 1968, Washington, D.C.
When we speak or write about gun control, the fingers point to second amendment rights, to the suggestion that a complex problem may resolve with the application of one strategy, or to the NRA position and lobby. Democracy is messy, but safety and citizen rights are the concerns rational people hold in common.
No matter the side on which we stand, we are guilty of a moral failure. Gun control is not going to be the entire answer. It’s a beginning and as the U.K., Australia, Japan and Germany have proven it’s a huge and rewarding beginning. I think that most who advocate gun control understand that the issues of violence in America are complex. Not the least of other initiatives would be mental health interventions, mitigating poverty and youth unemployment, creating more educational opportunities and subsidizing arts programs, revisioning our materialistic values, fostering the reimagination of masculinity, and honoring our stated religious convictions. Many of us understand gun ownership as the gateway drug to violence and murder, a contradiction to those convictions. The U.S. is predominantly a country of the Abrahamic traditions and the law we share: “Thou shalt not kill.”
© 2018, Jamie Dedes
A lovely morning, the bright mid-February sun illuminating the very air as it bounced off last night’s fluffy snowfall. Now clouds have begun to fill in from the west, turning the day chilly and dank.
This coming week is forecast to be as much as 30 degrees F above seasonal norms. There will likely be sap runs and some adventurous souls will likely sunbathe if the sun appears long enough. We are also into Winter break at many of our schools, with families taking off to the ski slopes or to warmer climes for the week.
Speaking of school, our small state was stunned this week when a young man was arrested for planning an attack on the small rural high school he once attended. The eighteen year old had been in a mental health treatment program in a nearby state, but had come home to carry out the well planned attack.
All this began unfolding on Tuesday, the same day as the Florida high school shooting, and reminded us that we are not immune to the epidemic of mass gun violence. We Vermonters pride ourselves on having created a pretty fair place to live and to raise children, so it came as a shock that one of our own kids could live with such fierce hate and intent to harm others.
As far as we know the young man was not motivated by racial or ethnic hatred, as was the youth in Florida who chose to attack a predominantly Jewish high school. Rather, the Vermont youth had previously attended his chosen target high school, and knew some of the students and teachers there. His rage seems to have been more personal.
As always, following actual, or potential, acts of mass violence, we are left to ponder what is truly happening in our society that encourages Caucasian males to plan and carry out mass killings, and what we might do about it. (Virtually all of the mass shootings during the past ten years and more have been conducted by Caucasian males.) I don’t know the answer to either of these questions, although I am certain our leaders’ encouragement of violence in support of ideological goals must contribute to the problem.
While mass shootings rose significantly last year, along with the rhetoric of violent change, during the first six weeks of this year mass violence has been particularly virulent. Yet those in power appear unwilling to reign in either their hate speech, or the availability of the assault rifles that are the weapons of choice in mass shootings, weapons that may be purchased for less than $500 US when purchased with abundant ammunition.
Here in the U.S. the level of everyday violence is rising, along with a sense of unease and vulnerability. Now, when we say goodbye to our loved ones in the morning we collectively find ourselves wondering whether our partners will arrive safely home from work and our kids from school. We also wonder how we are to create needed change when the gun lobby uses its wealth, and the greed of our politicians, to block any and all attempts to make meaningful change.
Here in Vermont there is a long and healthy culture of hunting for subsistence, and rifles and shotguns are often family treasures as well as tools. The idea that those weapons could be turned on our loved ones, friends, and students remains abhorrent to most of us, even as the likelihood someone will use guns to create mass tragedy and suffering, even here in Vermont, increases.
After this week Vermonters are talking about mass violence from very personal perspectives, a conversation that promises to last well beyond this fall’s election cycle.
© 2018, essay and photo, Michael Watson
i
Starting from the outside,
the labyrinth’s path moves closer,
further, closer, as it takes a poet
deviously toward the center.
Mosaic patterns, partly broken
by frost, perpetually bloom there.
Gray, mossed-stones line the path—
they frame the wanderer’s flower.
ii
We wandered that desert
for forty years. All we had
for communication were
specially designed tents
built from detailed plans—
each folding floorboard
and floating nail exact—
a cellular plan from God.
iii
That lonely God longed for
our calls, the return of a gift
we could not understand.
We just turned on each other
instead. We hoarded words
into locked arks as though
we owned them or understood
what they meant. We didn’t.
iv
We meant to know more. Ever since,
with poor reception, a limited data plan,
we still pretend we can call God
whenever we want. We pray
for every child shot in school
as though words could unlock
such cruelty. We pray that we
will not long be held responsible.
v
I long for the days before
those instructions were given,
before we built the tabernacle,
before we transformed the tent
to stone on top of a mountain,
before we thought we knew
what God wanted us to do,
before we decided we were priests.
(vi)
A wandering God longs for us
from outside a forty-year labyrinth,
folding time, returning space, locked
into receiving words that cannot be given.
We thought we knew.
(vii)
On the seventh day, God rested.
We have not seen or heard
Creation since. Our language
overwhelms the world.
We thought we knew.
—Michael Dickel
This two-poem sequence was written at Lake Jackson, Tallahassee, Florida, during Michael‘s participation in the 100 Thousand Poets for Change Residency Program 2018, in the days following the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School mass killings in Parkland, Florida. The 100 Thousand Poets for Change organization has planned poetry events as gun violence protests for peace and memorials for Parkland. More information with a schedule can be found here.
Birthed in the minds of power-mad men,
Forged in the mouth of a dark thundercloud,
My sole purpose to kill,
I make murder a thrill;
The cause of many
A burial shroud.
A tool of war-mongers and lovers, alike,
Eat bullets, spit fire, life snatched in a flash.
Life of violence,
Ringing silence,
Endless echoes left,
Bereft and shrieking,
After the crash.
Were I not here, you’d find another way,
To kill each other, one by one,
Each day.
Death-bringer, me.
“Equalizer”, I be.
Men, women, children…
None are safe from The Gun.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2013
The scope for all manner of catastrophe by their obnoxious, cynical hands is horrifying. And we keep being told that there’s no alternative; that it’s competence or chaos; mainstream or radical fringe; with us or against us; deserving or undeserving; ally or monster; either-or. Always either-or… To do this they oversimplify each issue and circumstance, scapegoating or sexing up, until it is reduced to a catchy, polarizing meme and then they feign consternation over all the threats and distress they’ve conjured. Or do they conjure up a load of threats and distress and then simplify them to polarize everyone…?
How are we continuing to tolerate such an industrialised scale of hypocrisy and hubris? How on earth are we still bearing their cold indifference to cause and consequence; the expedience of their cruel, misguided pragmatism? How do we stomach the interminable provocations and funnelled paranoia? I don’t believe our modern species is so readily predisposed to such superficial extremes. I think we’re far too full of contradictions and nuance once you get underneath the first couple of layers. Why are these creatures still being allowed to get away with their obscene behaviour? At what point will we admit we are complicit and have learned to love our chains? For, if we are not; have not: where are our blazing pitchforks?
And Mainstream News’ content and delivery? It mostly seems to collude to serve the Powerful. We get fed shallow headlines followed by even shallower analyses; celebrity big-up or tear-down; something about someone, who apparently should know better, not toeing the latest line; a report about a report on something so appalling that people cannot understand how it could ever have happened at all, must ‘never again’ but probably will; a few temporary and meaningless economic numbers, followed by even more meaningless analysis; another story of hair-raising incompetence or fraud, quickly justified or deflected; another populist policy to tempt, punish or placate, framed as anything but the tinkering that it is; merit given to sheer electioneering mischief… And on and on. Every day more surreal and yet so sterile.
There are moments, some days and some whole days when it’s as though my outrage and numbness have been whisked into a solid fusion. It’s like I’m flung, for a period, into suspended animation. The passion of impotent protest, crowding in and freezing my whole being. I know it’s a fleeting overwhelm of emotion and thought but, well, it’s visiting more often and staying longer. Sometimes I think I’m only saved from losing ‘it’ due to lashings of healthy irreverence, an eye for the wry and a great deal of there but for the grace of… And I wonder at the leadership which creates and depends on a world of fight or flight for its profit; at all those around the world for whom this designed overwhelm is an imposed, perpetual constant. How are there not more people running around, demented, with wild eyes, pulling their hair out? Or curling up in a corner and rocking? I think we are, though, in our souls. Is it just me being temporarily consumed by the fanned extremes of my own angst or am I tripping into the angst of collective consciousness?
For the global atmosphere is a heavy fog of fear and denial, so widespread, so deep, so prevalent that, whether consciously or subconsciously, it must overshadow and infiltrate every individual to some degree. Even if you’re paying only a little attention to national and international affairs and conditions, you surely cannot fail to be at least uneasy about the interminable, mind-blowing ineptitude that has put our world in such a state – however you measure yourself by pressing ideological instruments. And they are pressing, aren’t they? In this reckoning coming – for reckoning is our current trajectory – there will be teeth-gnashing and hand-wringing for everyone.
And yet…
I have hope. It’s in that inextinguishable light contained in Humanity’s heart and mind and an enduring faith in our capacity for enlightenment and generosity of spirit. And I tell my shadow self that this grotesque age, too, shall pass. That the People will rise. That these monsters of narrow, selfish ideology will surely be slain lest our doom be sealed because, simply, it’s the grotesque or the rest of us. And I tell myself that, whether I’ll still be sane (please smile at that) or even still around for our healing, it matters little. Others will be. However long it takes. And that those generations will conduct themselves a bit better, perhaps for longer, next time around.
© 2017, Juli [Juxtaposed]
I was thinking about what to write for this month’s BeZine theme of Spirituality. Honestly, lately, I have felt anything but spiritual. It’s hard to feel a closeness to the Divine when you’re angry, or depressed about what’s happening in the world. This time of year is at least partly highlighted for spirituality because of the story of Mary and the birth of Christ, yet the stress of the holidays can be overwhelming…so many people are lonely, or forgotten, or living in poverty that it almost feels wrong to celebrate at all when such problems are so widespread. It can make a person question the existence of a benevolent God, question one’s own spiritual beliefs in the face of so much pain and suffering.
These thoughts made me pause, and it occurred to me that maybe when we’re down, or angry at the state of the world, or despairing of humanity is when we need spirituality most? For me, part of being spiritual is spreading light and love to as many others as possible; be a representative of the spirit you wish to manifest, to honor that divine spark inside. One of the most common precepts that crosses into almost every kind of spirituality or religious principles is that of Joy. And what is true laughter but an unfettered expression of joy?
In the same vein of laughter being the best medicine, I decided to look for humorous stories or jokes with a spiritual or religious bent and share them with all of you here (sources listed at the bottom). Please forgive me if you’ve read or heard them before. Perhaps after smiling for a few minutes, you’ll feel lighter and better able to deal with any spiritual challenges you might face. Maybe you’ll even discover ways to keep the flame alive and share the light with other candles. May you all have a blessed (and joyous!) holiday season. 🙂
* * * * * * * * *
1) Spiritual Gifts
During the French Revolution, three Christians were sentenced to die by the guillotine. One Christian had the gift of faith, believing God for big things. The second one had the gift of prophecy, and the third had the gift of helps… a real problem solver.
The Christian with the gift of faith was to be executed first. He declined a hood over his head, saying he was not afraid. “I have faith God will deliver me!” he shouted. As his neck was positioned under the guillotine, he said a short prayer and waited confidently. The rope was pulled, but nothing happened. His amazed executioners believed it was an act of God and they freed the man.
The Christian with the gift of prophecy was next, and he also refused the hood. “I am not afraid to die,” he said as he was positioned under the blade. “But I predict God will deliver me from this guillotine!” The rope was pulled and again, nothing happened. The puzzled executioners assumed it was a miracle and freed this man too.
The third Christian – the man with the gift of helps – was next. He likewise refused the hood. “I’m just as brave as those other men,” he said. So the executioners positioned him, face up, under the guillotine. They were just about to pull the rope when the man stopped them.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I think I just found the problem with your guillotine!”
2) Zen Koans for the Internet Age
• If an anonymous comment goes unread, is it still irritating?
• What is the sound of no hands texting?
• If nobody likes your selfie, what is the value of the self?
• To see a man’s true face, look to the photos he hasn’t posted.
3) Will it Be Heaven or Hell?
While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies.
His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.
“Welcome to heaven,” says St. Peter. “Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we’re not sure what to do with you.”
“No problem, just let me in,” says the man.
“Well, I’d like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we’ll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.”
“Really, I’ve made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,” says the senator.
“I’m sorry, but we have our rules.”
And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.
Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting Rich at the expense of the people.
They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.
Also present is the Devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises…
The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.
“Now it’s time to visit heaven.”
So, 24 hours pass with the senator joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.
“Well, then, you’ve spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity.”
The senator reflects for a minute, then he answers: “Well, I would Never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell.”
So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.
Now the doors of the elevator open and he’s in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above. The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder.
“I-I don’t understand,” stammers the senator. “Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there’s just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?”
The devil looks at him, smiles and says, “Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted.”
4) Whale of a tale
A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.
The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.
The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale.
Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.
The little girl said, “When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah”.
The teacher asked, “What if Jonah went to hell?”
The little girl replied, “Then you ask him”.
5) The Preacher’s Donkey
A man bought a donkey from a preacher. The preacher told the man that this donkey had been trained in a very unique way, (being the donkey of a preacher). “The only way to make the donkey go,” the preacher explained, “is to say, “Hallelujah!”. And the only way to make the donkey stop, is to say, “Amen!”.
The man was pleased with his purchase and immediately got on the animal to try out the preacher’s instructions. “Hallelujah!”, shouted the man. The donkey began to trot. “Amen!”, shouted the man. The donkey stopped immediately. “This is great!”, said the man. With a “Hallelujah”, he rode off, very proud of his new purchase.
The man traveled for a long time through some mountains. Soon he was heading towards a cliff. He could not for the life of him remember the word to make the donkey stop. “Stop”, said the man. “Halt!”, he cried. The donkey just kept going. “Oh, no…’Bible!…Church!…Please Stop!!“, shouted the man. The donkey just began to trot faster. He was getting closer and closer to the cliff’s edge. Finally, in desperation, the man said a prayer…“Please, dear Lord. Please make this donkey stop before we go off the end of this mountain, In Jesus name, AMEN”.
The donkey came to an abrupt stop just one step from the edge of the cliff.
“HALLELUJAH!”, shouted the man.
*** Sources:
1) https://lolwithgod.com/category/spiritual-gifts/
2) https://www.rd.com/jokes/religion/
3) http://www.clearvisionbiblestudies.com/Humor/Heaven_Hell.html
4) http://gatewaytojesus.com/humorouschurchstories.html
5) https://www.cybersalt.org/clean-jokes/preachers-donkey
© 2017, Corina Ravenscraft
The things I used to write about–travel, photography, family fun–seem trivial as I watch my country die the agonizing Death by a Thousand Cuts. It’s like staring into the sun–what little I write these days always seems to circle back to Trump and the Republican Party, as they rip apart the fabric of my homeland. Like 72% of all liberals, I suffer from an actual phenomenon called Trump Anxiety. Here are a few suggestions on how to stay positive.
Carry a camera wherever you go; search for beauty to photograph, and you will find it, even in the dark. 
Find comfort in a single ray of sunlight.
Get outside and let the soothing sensations of the natural world calm you…
…even in the rain.
Find a moment of peace in the simplest of pleasures.
Painting by Andrew Wyeth, currently on exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum.
Like the sharing of music…
…or laughter…
…or a story…
…or even just a cup of coffee.
Be social, even if you have to stretch yourself…
…and you will probably be glad you did.
If you need to escape, always have a good book in hand, and the next one in mind.
Patronize businesses that embrace your values.
If you can’t affect what happens in the White House, you can still help make your community a safe and welcoming place for everyone. The local library is a good place to start.
Eva Abram, Roger Fernandes, and Allison Cox tell stories of Self and Solidarity.
To alleviate the feeling of helplessness, speak out whenever you can…
…however you can…
…wherever you are.
You will soon discover that you are not alone.
Anger eats away at you from the inside. Love is better for your health.
Remember to be thankful for what you have, and don’t lose hope.
Especially this time of year, it is customary to push back the darkness and
celebrate the light.
It is there.
It is there.
It is there.
And keep in mind the words of King Solomon, who said, “This too shall pass.”
©2017NaomiBaltuck
The BeZine 