Saturday, May 31, 2014
The id Post: The Long Lasting Ripple Effects of the Words of Ma...
The id Post: The Long Lasting Ripple Effects of the Words of Ma...: by Irene Daniel The first time I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings , I felt naked inside. It was as though someone has reached down dee...
Friday, May 30, 2014
The id Post: The Long Lasting Ripple Effects of the Words of Ma...
The id Post: The Long Lasting Ripple Effects of the Words of Ma...: by Irene Daniel The first time I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings , I felt naked inside. It was as though someone has reached down dee...
Thursday, May 22, 2014
The id Post: Love From A Distance
The id Post: Love From A Distance: by Irene Daniel Love from afar, a physical emptiness, longing, ache. A safe distance away from stones and words of all kinds; ...
Love From A Distance
by Irene Daniel
Love
from afar,
a physical
emptiness,
longing,
ache.
A safe distance
away
from stones
and words
of all kinds;
safe for the flesh,
but never the soul.
And souls
will meet,
always, always,
in sacred places;
where flesh is
a hindrance
to
the sacred,
sacred love
that transcends
ALL.
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Love
from afar,
a physical
emptiness,
longing,
ache.
A safe distance
away
from stones
and words
of all kinds;
safe for the flesh,
but never the soul.
And souls
will meet,
always, always,
in sacred places;
where flesh is
a hindrance
to
the sacred,
sacred love
that transcends
ALL.
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The id Post: A Page of Praise for My Hometown: The Cowboy Cradl...
The id Post: A Page of Praise for My Hometown: The Cowboy Cradl...: by Irene Daniel I was born and raised in Florence, AZ in the mid-1950s. Ike was President of the USA; and copper, cotton and cattle were K...
A Page of Praise for My Hometown: The Cowboy Cradle of the Southwest!
by Irene Daniel
I was born and raised in Florence, AZ in the mid-1950s. Ike was President of the USA; and copper, cotton and cattle were King in the Grand Canyon State. I grew up around cowboys, farmers and miners.
Every Thanksgiving Weekend, the Florence Jr. Parada still brings cowboy families from all over the country, to the oldest rodeo for minors, 6-16 years of age, in the entire USA.
Our neighborhoods consisted of families of union copper miners, farmers, ranchers, nurses, schoolteachers, merchants and, since our town was the County Seat of Pinal County, there were many government jobs too. And because Florence was home to the Arizona State Prison maximum security facility -- that's right, the big house, as well as a federal prison at one time -- there were a lot of prison guards.
Ours was a working class community, full of different kinds of people, with different kinds of jobs. There were several churches, always full on Sundays. There was one elementary school, a jr. high school and one high school; which was a union high school, meaning that it incorporated the outlying rural community.
When I say there were all kinds of people, I am talking mostly about wealth-class, not necessarily ethnicity. For Florence was a community of predominantly whites and Mexicans, whose families had been intermarrying and producing offspring for generations. There were also a few Native Americans, and a few African-American families; but it was populated by whites mostly, and Mexicans, and sometimes, the mixed ethnicities of white and Mexican families, that were most predominant at that time. However, there were no Asians or Jews. It was a town that was morally conservative, but often politically liberal in its distribution of town resources; in part due to the union influence of nearby copper mines.
I had to leave it to appreciate it, but there is something very special about this little town. Founded in 1866, it has a history of shoot-outs on Main Street in the wild west days, as well as a rich history of merchants buying and selling and trading on the banks of what was once a mighty flowing Gila River. During the Gold Rush, people would float down to Florence on the Gila. From there, they could buy horses and wagons to head to Northern California. Or maybe they'd stay in Florence, finding work on the local farms and ranches.
Perhaps because of all the commerce, Florence was not prone to the "otherizing" of ethnicity so prevalent in other Arizona towns, many of them segregated, especially the neighboring mining towns. This segregation was aimed at Mexicans, as there were few African-Americans, or other ethnicities other than Mexican and Native American, there in the early 20th century. Recently however, an old Florence newspaper clipping was sent to the town's librarian, having been found among the papers of a recently deceased man who used to live in Florence. The paper was dated from the late 1890s, and contained an advertisement for a Japanese import shop! Wow. Until recently, I don't remember hearing of any Asian influence in the region, so this bit of news makes me even more proud of our little cow town, with 2 stoplights in the whole place.
40 years ago, I could not have imagined singing praises to my hometown. I was so anxious to leave it. It was boring. Nothing ever happened there, it seemed to my insecure teenage self. I wanted to be in LA, where there were riots and earthquakes -- excitement!
Today, I live in Los Angeles, and I have a good life here -- sans riots and earthquakes for the moment. However, I will never, ever forget where I came from, nor the village that helped raise me and my brothers and all the kids in town.
Florence is where I learned that leadership is found in those who encourage us all toward our higher selves, rather than pander to the lowest human instinct. I learned this from people of high ideals and high expectations for all of us; people like Art Celaya (and his brothers), Olga Cathemer, Santos Vega, Mrs. Quno (?spelling), Carol Gomes, Wanda Malmo, Esther George, Donna Anello and an entire regiment of the best teachers, doctors, judges, pastors and -- most of all -- parents, who looked out for each other, and each other's families, every day.
It was a place where different kinds of people learned to peacefully co-exist by seeking and finding the best in one another. How I took this valuable foundation for granted for so long is unfathomable to me now. For now I see that much of my frustration with the rest of the world is that it is so unlike Florence, with its constant striving to choose higher, and to take care of its own.
I'm glad that I can go home again. Thank you, Florence, Arizona!
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
I was born and raised in Florence, AZ in the mid-1950s. Ike was President of the USA; and copper, cotton and cattle were King in the Grand Canyon State. I grew up around cowboys, farmers and miners.
Every Thanksgiving Weekend, the Florence Jr. Parada still brings cowboy families from all over the country, to the oldest rodeo for minors, 6-16 years of age, in the entire USA.
Our neighborhoods consisted of families of union copper miners, farmers, ranchers, nurses, schoolteachers, merchants and, since our town was the County Seat of Pinal County, there were many government jobs too. And because Florence was home to the Arizona State Prison maximum security facility -- that's right, the big house, as well as a federal prison at one time -- there were a lot of prison guards.
Ours was a working class community, full of different kinds of people, with different kinds of jobs. There were several churches, always full on Sundays. There was one elementary school, a jr. high school and one high school; which was a union high school, meaning that it incorporated the outlying rural community.
When I say there were all kinds of people, I am talking mostly about wealth-class, not necessarily ethnicity. For Florence was a community of predominantly whites and Mexicans, whose families had been intermarrying and producing offspring for generations. There were also a few Native Americans, and a few African-American families; but it was populated by whites mostly, and Mexicans, and sometimes, the mixed ethnicities of white and Mexican families, that were most predominant at that time. However, there were no Asians or Jews. It was a town that was morally conservative, but often politically liberal in its distribution of town resources; in part due to the union influence of nearby copper mines.
I had to leave it to appreciate it, but there is something very special about this little town. Founded in 1866, it has a history of shoot-outs on Main Street in the wild west days, as well as a rich history of merchants buying and selling and trading on the banks of what was once a mighty flowing Gila River. During the Gold Rush, people would float down to Florence on the Gila. From there, they could buy horses and wagons to head to Northern California. Or maybe they'd stay in Florence, finding work on the local farms and ranches.
Perhaps because of all the commerce, Florence was not prone to the "otherizing" of ethnicity so prevalent in other Arizona towns, many of them segregated, especially the neighboring mining towns. This segregation was aimed at Mexicans, as there were few African-Americans, or other ethnicities other than Mexican and Native American, there in the early 20th century. Recently however, an old Florence newspaper clipping was sent to the town's librarian, having been found among the papers of a recently deceased man who used to live in Florence. The paper was dated from the late 1890s, and contained an advertisement for a Japanese import shop! Wow. Until recently, I don't remember hearing of any Asian influence in the region, so this bit of news makes me even more proud of our little cow town, with 2 stoplights in the whole place.
40 years ago, I could not have imagined singing praises to my hometown. I was so anxious to leave it. It was boring. Nothing ever happened there, it seemed to my insecure teenage self. I wanted to be in LA, where there were riots and earthquakes -- excitement!
Today, I live in Los Angeles, and I have a good life here -- sans riots and earthquakes for the moment. However, I will never, ever forget where I came from, nor the village that helped raise me and my brothers and all the kids in town.
Florence is where I learned that leadership is found in those who encourage us all toward our higher selves, rather than pander to the lowest human instinct. I learned this from people of high ideals and high expectations for all of us; people like Art Celaya (and his brothers), Olga Cathemer, Santos Vega, Mrs. Quno (?spelling), Carol Gomes, Wanda Malmo, Esther George, Donna Anello and an entire regiment of the best teachers, doctors, judges, pastors and -- most of all -- parents, who looked out for each other, and each other's families, every day.
It was a place where different kinds of people learned to peacefully co-exist by seeking and finding the best in one another. How I took this valuable foundation for granted for so long is unfathomable to me now. For now I see that much of my frustration with the rest of the world is that it is so unlike Florence, with its constant striving to choose higher, and to take care of its own.
I'm glad that I can go home again. Thank you, Florence, Arizona!
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
The id Post: A Plague on Both Your Houses: Has The Southern Str...
The id Post: A Plague on Both Your Houses: Has The Southern Str...: by Irene Daniel Today's political landscape seems simple. The Democrats are generally the liberals and progressives; the Republicans ...
A Plague on Both Your Houses: Has The Southern Strategy Run Its Course?
by Irene Daniel
Today's political landscape seems simple. The Democrats are generally the liberals and progressives; the Republicans are the conservatives and the defenders of the status quo. I realize that this is a grossly oversimplified model; and that the spectrum from right to left is much broader. It is impossible to draw a simple straight line between the two, although it is easier than it used to be.
At its inception in the 1860s, it was the Republican party, led by none other than Abe Lincoln himself, that was the progressive party. The Democratic party in those days was wrought with southern slave owners, championing state's rights -- the Dixiecrats. Teddy Roosevelt carried on the progressive ideas of the young Republican party with his trust-busting policies, and concern for the plight of the working poor pitted against powerful monopolies.
The 20th century, however, brought many a twist and turn that made us rethink and readjust our priorities as Americans; especially following the Great Depression and two world wars. Throughout the 20th century, conservatives and liberals could be found in both parties, largely due to new alliances on both sides; organized labor with the Democrats, and organized capitalists with the Republicans. Both parties, however, were more evenly balanced between young and old ideas in the mid-20th century.
1964 changed everything. For in 1964, President Lyndon Johnson used his considerable legislative acumen, combined with the nation's overwhelming grief after the assassination of President Kennedy. to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964; a pivotal moment in American history. In so doing, Johnson knew that the Democratic party would have to kiss all those old Dixiecrats good-bye forever. And so they did. Almost all of the Dixiecrats of the old south became Republicans.
And here is where GOP strategist Lee Atwater and the 'southern strategy' take over GOP philosophy. In the mid-1960s and '70s, it became unfashionable to be openly racist. Thus, more subtle forms of racial communication among those who still clung to their white male supremacy were developed. Terms such as "inner-city," "welfare queens" and "law and order" replaced the overt racism of the old Jim Crow laws. However, the policies set in place of over-policing and the excessive jailing of nonwhites have created a society that is still highly segregated, and where nonwhites are astronomically overrepresented among those behind bars today.
And what's more, GOP cronies are making money and getting elected, promising to build more private prisons to further unjustly enrich white GOP cronies, off of the backs of nonwhite skin. This is the new slavery. They are still making money off of nonwhite bodies. Organizations like ALEC, funded by billionaires like the Kochs, Waltons and Sheldon Adelsons, are recreating new plantations, whether they be prisons or big box stores.
However, as more and more people of color, as well as non-heterosexuals, become enlightened and empowered, these subtle ploys become more and more transparent. And the more transparent and obvious they become, the less attractive to the new demographics of America. And here is where the Dixiecrats that once plagued the Democratic party, have now thoroughly infested the Republican party. Some have moved even further to the right with Tea Party candidates and others who want to storm the Capitol right now, and personally cut off President Obama's head.
These southern conservatives keep moving the Republican party to the right. Which would be okay if that is where the rest of the nation was going; but it is not. Within the next few decades, most Americans will be a mix of many ethnicities. The largest ethnic group will be Latinos, and most of those will be of Mexican descent. Moreover, there is a steady and growing migration of nonwhites, including blacks, Latinos and Asians, to southern states.
What does this all mean? The death of Dixie?
This means of course that, even if the Republicans successfully take over both houses of congress this year, this will be the last election cycle in which they will succeed; for they cannot overcome the demographic tsunami coming their way. It is inevitable.
They may yet win this battle this year, but they will most definitely lose the war.
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Today's political landscape seems simple. The Democrats are generally the liberals and progressives; the Republicans are the conservatives and the defenders of the status quo. I realize that this is a grossly oversimplified model; and that the spectrum from right to left is much broader. It is impossible to draw a simple straight line between the two, although it is easier than it used to be.
At its inception in the 1860s, it was the Republican party, led by none other than Abe Lincoln himself, that was the progressive party. The Democratic party in those days was wrought with southern slave owners, championing state's rights -- the Dixiecrats. Teddy Roosevelt carried on the progressive ideas of the young Republican party with his trust-busting policies, and concern for the plight of the working poor pitted against powerful monopolies.
The 20th century, however, brought many a twist and turn that made us rethink and readjust our priorities as Americans; especially following the Great Depression and two world wars. Throughout the 20th century, conservatives and liberals could be found in both parties, largely due to new alliances on both sides; organized labor with the Democrats, and organized capitalists with the Republicans. Both parties, however, were more evenly balanced between young and old ideas in the mid-20th century.
1964 changed everything. For in 1964, President Lyndon Johnson used his considerable legislative acumen, combined with the nation's overwhelming grief after the assassination of President Kennedy. to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964; a pivotal moment in American history. In so doing, Johnson knew that the Democratic party would have to kiss all those old Dixiecrats good-bye forever. And so they did. Almost all of the Dixiecrats of the old south became Republicans.
And here is where GOP strategist Lee Atwater and the 'southern strategy' take over GOP philosophy. In the mid-1960s and '70s, it became unfashionable to be openly racist. Thus, more subtle forms of racial communication among those who still clung to their white male supremacy were developed. Terms such as "inner-city," "welfare queens" and "law and order" replaced the overt racism of the old Jim Crow laws. However, the policies set in place of over-policing and the excessive jailing of nonwhites have created a society that is still highly segregated, and where nonwhites are astronomically overrepresented among those behind bars today.
And what's more, GOP cronies are making money and getting elected, promising to build more private prisons to further unjustly enrich white GOP cronies, off of the backs of nonwhite skin. This is the new slavery. They are still making money off of nonwhite bodies. Organizations like ALEC, funded by billionaires like the Kochs, Waltons and Sheldon Adelsons, are recreating new plantations, whether they be prisons or big box stores.
However, as more and more people of color, as well as non-heterosexuals, become enlightened and empowered, these subtle ploys become more and more transparent. And the more transparent and obvious they become, the less attractive to the new demographics of America. And here is where the Dixiecrats that once plagued the Democratic party, have now thoroughly infested the Republican party. Some have moved even further to the right with Tea Party candidates and others who want to storm the Capitol right now, and personally cut off President Obama's head.
These southern conservatives keep moving the Republican party to the right. Which would be okay if that is where the rest of the nation was going; but it is not. Within the next few decades, most Americans will be a mix of many ethnicities. The largest ethnic group will be Latinos, and most of those will be of Mexican descent. Moreover, there is a steady and growing migration of nonwhites, including blacks, Latinos and Asians, to southern states.
What does this all mean? The death of Dixie?
This means of course that, even if the Republicans successfully take over both houses of congress this year, this will be the last election cycle in which they will succeed; for they cannot overcome the demographic tsunami coming their way. It is inevitable.
They may yet win this battle this year, but they will most definitely lose the war.
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
The id Post: Two Years and a Lifetime Ago
The id Post: Two Years and a Lifetime Ago: by Irene Daniel Two years ago, I was burying my mother. It has been for me, the mother of all grief. And it really sent me into a tailspin...
Two Years and a Lifetime Ago
by Irene Daniel
Two years ago, I was burying my mother. It has been for me, the mother of all grief. And it really sent me into a tailspin. I have felt more lost in these past two years than ever before in my life. And for those who know me well, that is a pretty high bar. For I have lost my way before, with fewer resources and less self-confidence, and yet, this unsettling grief and anxiety was more than I could bear -- alone.
For I could not run away from my feelings anymore. I could not escape a past, much of which I had simply blotted out for most of my adult life. There was nowhere left to run. This was home. This was my mom. My alpha and omega. My first love, my first friend. My caretaker, teacher and protector. She was also my jailer and tormentor in ways that haunt me still. And it is this truth with which I am now able to make peace.
Now I realize how very ill my mother was all of her life. And in so doing, I acknowledge my own dis-ease with life, and how mental illness has affected my entire family and my entire life. I can see now how she was afraid of her own craziness, and that is why she kept people at bay; even her own children, even her sisters, who I know she dearly loved.
And I know now how she felt because that is what I have done. And for the same reasons, albeit mostly subliminally. Stuffing all that darkness and insanity away for years and decades and generations has made me very, very ill. So ill that I needed medication, as well as therapy, in order to render me even semi-functional these past long months. I needed a lot of help to come face to face with me.
Last year it seemed that I could do nothing. I could not focus or complete even the most simple administrative duties for which I was responsible. I could not remember anything. It seemed that all I could do was cry. And write. Even reading, which is like breathing to me, was often difficult. But I could write. And cry. And cry and write.
Much of my writing, especially my journaling, is and will remain unpublished. This writing was just for me to figure out -- finally -- all the crap and emotions that I needed to unpack and sort out. As well you might imagine, I am not done. And I will never be done, but I am better now. And it is time to live again. Time to remember that fortune favors the bold.
It's as though my fields of productivity have now lain fallow long enough, and it is time to move on to the next chapter of my life -- my life as an author, dog-owner, wife, mother and grandmother. And I know that it is also time to stop running away from my mental dis-ease, and to start to live -- really live.
As I write this, I wonder how much was left unfulfilled in my grandmother, who committed suicide at the age of 52. I know that there was much unfulfilled in my mom. I know how afraid she was of everything and everyone. She trusted no one. At the very end, she trusted me because she knew she had to finally surrender, and allow herself to be vulnerable, and to be taken care of by another. This surrender was so difficult for her because she did not know how to let others into her soul.
And now they are in my dreams, my mother and my grandmother, and in my consciousness. They tell me that I must live now. They didn't get to go to college, much less law school. And I realize what a dis it would to them to squander my talent and my gifts, or to allow myself to isolate in depression and anxiety as they did. Two generations of our family's women is enough of a sacrifice. I am left to claim the prize of a life lived unafraid and unashamed.
Although this dormant period in my life is now coming to an end, I do not lament or regret it at all. I have learned more about myself and what I genuinely feel about everything without the need to hide myself, or my feelings, away. I also learned that I really enjoy being a housewife and focusing primarily on taking care of my home and family. Who knew?
I've heard it said that, before enlightenment, we chop wood and haul water; and after enlightenment, we chop wood and haul water. I have experienced the naked joy and freedom of chopping wood and hauling water, figuratively speaking, and realizing the sacred in the ordinary. My fallow fields are now ready to plow and reap and sow.
And the most important lesson learned was that I am not alone. I have never been alone and will never be alone. I remember how strange, and yet very soothing, it felt to have my childhood friends around me to help me bury my mother. It felt strange because I had become estranged from everything that reminded of my childhood, with all of its trauma and devastating disappointments. I didn't really stay in touch with anybody because I hadn't really been there with them in the first place when we were in school together. But small towns are always family and my former classmates carried her coffin with me. Traffic was stopped on Main Street, where my mother walked nearly every day. In my home town, I am always home. I didn't really know that two years and a month ago. But I know it now. And I will never forget, or regret, where I came from.
And it is some of those same friends and other friends I have made along the way, as well as dozens of new ones, that sustain me now. Social media has allowed me to reconnect and to once again laugh, and sometimes fight, with my old friends. And it is comforting, not frightening, this time.
I don't know anymore if I'm a loner because I'm just made that way, or because I'm just too afraid to let anyone get too close. I surmise it's a bit of both. But life was meant to shared and negotiated with others. A full life cannot be lived any other way. And I want a full life.
I am a perennial learner. My curiosity knows no bounds. Now I want to learn to love people in the same manner that I love to learn; to be curious about them and to never stop discovering them. For in so doing, I discover and re-discover myself.
That sounds like a journey worth taking, doesn't it?
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
Two years ago, I was burying my mother. It has been for me, the mother of all grief. And it really sent me into a tailspin. I have felt more lost in these past two years than ever before in my life. And for those who know me well, that is a pretty high bar. For I have lost my way before, with fewer resources and less self-confidence, and yet, this unsettling grief and anxiety was more than I could bear -- alone.
For I could not run away from my feelings anymore. I could not escape a past, much of which I had simply blotted out for most of my adult life. There was nowhere left to run. This was home. This was my mom. My alpha and omega. My first love, my first friend. My caretaker, teacher and protector. She was also my jailer and tormentor in ways that haunt me still. And it is this truth with which I am now able to make peace.
Now I realize how very ill my mother was all of her life. And in so doing, I acknowledge my own dis-ease with life, and how mental illness has affected my entire family and my entire life. I can see now how she was afraid of her own craziness, and that is why she kept people at bay; even her own children, even her sisters, who I know she dearly loved.
And I know now how she felt because that is what I have done. And for the same reasons, albeit mostly subliminally. Stuffing all that darkness and insanity away for years and decades and generations has made me very, very ill. So ill that I needed medication, as well as therapy, in order to render me even semi-functional these past long months. I needed a lot of help to come face to face with me.
Last year it seemed that I could do nothing. I could not focus or complete even the most simple administrative duties for which I was responsible. I could not remember anything. It seemed that all I could do was cry. And write. Even reading, which is like breathing to me, was often difficult. But I could write. And cry. And cry and write.
Much of my writing, especially my journaling, is and will remain unpublished. This writing was just for me to figure out -- finally -- all the crap and emotions that I needed to unpack and sort out. As well you might imagine, I am not done. And I will never be done, but I am better now. And it is time to live again. Time to remember that fortune favors the bold.
It's as though my fields of productivity have now lain fallow long enough, and it is time to move on to the next chapter of my life -- my life as an author, dog-owner, wife, mother and grandmother. And I know that it is also time to stop running away from my mental dis-ease, and to start to live -- really live.
As I write this, I wonder how much was left unfulfilled in my grandmother, who committed suicide at the age of 52. I know that there was much unfulfilled in my mom. I know how afraid she was of everything and everyone. She trusted no one. At the very end, she trusted me because she knew she had to finally surrender, and allow herself to be vulnerable, and to be taken care of by another. This surrender was so difficult for her because she did not know how to let others into her soul.
And now they are in my dreams, my mother and my grandmother, and in my consciousness. They tell me that I must live now. They didn't get to go to college, much less law school. And I realize what a dis it would to them to squander my talent and my gifts, or to allow myself to isolate in depression and anxiety as they did. Two generations of our family's women is enough of a sacrifice. I am left to claim the prize of a life lived unafraid and unashamed.
Although this dormant period in my life is now coming to an end, I do not lament or regret it at all. I have learned more about myself and what I genuinely feel about everything without the need to hide myself, or my feelings, away. I also learned that I really enjoy being a housewife and focusing primarily on taking care of my home and family. Who knew?
I've heard it said that, before enlightenment, we chop wood and haul water; and after enlightenment, we chop wood and haul water. I have experienced the naked joy and freedom of chopping wood and hauling water, figuratively speaking, and realizing the sacred in the ordinary. My fallow fields are now ready to plow and reap and sow.
And the most important lesson learned was that I am not alone. I have never been alone and will never be alone. I remember how strange, and yet very soothing, it felt to have my childhood friends around me to help me bury my mother. It felt strange because I had become estranged from everything that reminded of my childhood, with all of its trauma and devastating disappointments. I didn't really stay in touch with anybody because I hadn't really been there with them in the first place when we were in school together. But small towns are always family and my former classmates carried her coffin with me. Traffic was stopped on Main Street, where my mother walked nearly every day. In my home town, I am always home. I didn't really know that two years and a month ago. But I know it now. And I will never forget, or regret, where I came from.
And it is some of those same friends and other friends I have made along the way, as well as dozens of new ones, that sustain me now. Social media has allowed me to reconnect and to once again laugh, and sometimes fight, with my old friends. And it is comforting, not frightening, this time.
I don't know anymore if I'm a loner because I'm just made that way, or because I'm just too afraid to let anyone get too close. I surmise it's a bit of both. But life was meant to shared and negotiated with others. A full life cannot be lived any other way. And I want a full life.
I am a perennial learner. My curiosity knows no bounds. Now I want to learn to love people in the same manner that I love to learn; to be curious about them and to never stop discovering them. For in so doing, I discover and re-discover myself.
That sounds like a journey worth taking, doesn't it?
Irene Daniel Copyright 2014 All rights reserved.
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