Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

This weekend, S. and I offered to help care for the seven horses that live in the campus' barn (as well as two cats living temporarily alone on opposite ends of town, but I digress). I don't know the first thing about taking care of horses, but S. has learned a lot in her eight months of lessons, and she knows each of the horses well. (Even after four days of seeing them twice each day for about an hour, I have yet to tell a couple of them apart--this either proves I'm not very observant or not a horse person, or both). Usually there are seven students, or more, taking care of these horses, but only two students were sticking around, so our help was welcomed. I'll just admit this: I agreed to do this partly because I was hoping to convince S. that she's not ready for her own horse, which she desperately wants and hopes I will decide to purchase for her for her 16th birthday. "I want a horse, not horsepower, for my sweet 16," she keeps saying. I keep tellin...

One day the weather is blue and warm, the dog bounding excitedly out the door, and the next, snowy-bright-white, easy-packing snow, the dog cautious, watchful. Soon after all is melted again and the snowperson's head has fallen off, a small, white ball among the unracked leaves. One day the house is full of people I truly love who are celebrating or mourning, candles lit, an abundance of food; the next, my daughter is kicking me, twisting my arm, her most violent outburst so far. And then we're standing on the roadside and she's holding a sign that says "I love my lesbian mom," and then there's another gathering that turns ugly toward the end and I'm wondering why I didn't step in when two friends got into an argument, knowing the hurt that could happen, kicking myself for pulling away. And then I'm screaming at my daughter louder than I ever have and she's crying, I don't remember why--too many refusals in a row to do what I've asked, ...

Four anti-gay amendments in one night. We're still waiting for a recount on Prop 8, but it doesn't look good. After I posted my last blog, I was up another three or so hours, answering facebook messages, text messages, e-mails. People were ecstatic--and also depressed. It was hard to know what to feel. On the one hand, I felt guilty for not feeling elated--fully, totally, purely. On the other hand, I felt guilty for feeling as happy as I did. It was surreal, actually. What does it tell us, as a nation, that we can "vote for change" while at the same time voting against basic civil rights? Yes, there will be some legal battles, the seeds of which have already begun. But some of us are tired of living in fear and worry that our children could be taken from us, that we have to rely on the whims of voters to determine whether or not our relationships "count." I can't help but think of what would have happened if I lived in Arkansas and the adoption had not y...

This morning at 7 a.m., my daughter and I went to the polls. (In our small town, there was no line yet--we were the only ones there!). The election judges let her go in with me so she could see what it was like to fill out a ballot. I have tried to allow S. to explore all sides of the issues that matter to her, but of course she's been influenced by me. We don't agree on everything, but we agree on much more than we did when she came to me, and we were both rooting for the same candidates and issues. We were uncharacteristically silent as I drove her to school. "I hope he wins," she whispered as she got out of the car. "Me too." --- The campus was alive with messages to vote Democratic, to vote for change. I feel lucky to work where I work. This afternoon, we had an appointment in a town two hours away. Usually I spend election day door knocking and phone calling and driving people to the polls, but this year I spent it driving to and from our appointment. I...