November 16, 2016
Be kind to one another.
If you watch daytime television—specifically, if you watch Ellen—these are words that are familiar to you. You may have caught a part of her show, or heard those words, and thought, “oh, what a nice sentiment”. And then you went back to whatever it was you were doing without another thought.
Be kind to one another.
Only five words, but if you let them sink in, if you let them permeate, they’re powerful, aren’t they? Now, some of you might wave them off, because I mentioned Ellen DeGeneres, a comedienne with a daytime talk show. I have to admit I don’t generally watch her show myself, although I have caught the odd episode, and seen the occasional YouTube clip. But then I don’t watch television in the daytime, period. I’m here, at my desk, in the daytime, half of the time writing, and half of the time pretending to write. If the day was longer, I might watch her show, because she has interesting guests, and she’s generous, not just to members of her audience, but also, and most usually to public schools and families of US military personnel, and worthy people in true need. So, in that way, I guess you could say she lives up to the words she uses at the end of every one of her shows.
Be kind to one another.
But what do those words mean, really? And, where did she get them, anyway? Here’s where my essay today might get a little sticky, but I won’t apologize for that. You see, those words are from the Bible. Ephesians 4:32, to be exact. And while I don’t usually do this, I’m going to write out that verse here, and I have a reason for doing it, so I hope you’ll allow me this indulgence and bear with me. The verse, as it appears in the New American Standard Bible: Be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.
Here’s my reason for reproducing that quote, and I guess I’m directing this chiefly toward the self-righteous out there, especially in light of not only the storm of “unfriending” and hate-filled diatribe that I see taking place in social media in the last week, but also the hate-related attacks that have occurred in the United States since November 8th. I fear that some of you are certain you know those words already. I’m sorry, but no, some of you don’t know those words at all.
That is the entire verse, as I presented it, and looking at it, we can all agree it doesn’t say “be kind to one another but only if you’re of the same color”; it doesn’t say, “be kind to one another but only if you’re of the same political party”; it doesn’t say, “be kind to one another, but only if you go to the same church”; it doesn’t say, “ be kind to one another, but only if you’re of the same ethnicity”; it doesn’t say, “be kind to one another, but only if it’s convenient for you”.
No. It says, simply, beautifully, and in words that are all-encompassing and easy to understand: “be kind to one another”.
When is kindness warranted? Always, but especially if you see your fellow human being vulnerable, depressed, suffering, or in need. If you see kids being threatened with violence, women being abused, those of another religion scorned and beaten. We are called upon to be kind in all that we do, aren’t we? There should be no meanness and no striking out—if only because being mean and striking out brings no lasting peace to ourselves. Being kind costs nothing, mostly, except a moment of your time—a smile, a word of encouragement, letting someone go ahead of you in a line. It can be anything from simply offering a helping hand, to something more demanding, as in standing up for someone who is being treated badly, or bullied.
There are no prerequisites to the ability to offer kindness—because kindness is already within us to give. In fact, that is the only reason it’s within us. And oddly, the more we give, the more we have available for us to give. The more we give, the more we gain for ourselves. We gain a sense of having done something right, something worthwhile, something good. The truth is, we feel good when we do good. Always.
These are difficult times. People are hurting. Hearts are broken. Dreams have been dashed. People who once felt protected, now live in fear. Whether you believe these emotions are justified, or not, does not change the reality that this is what it is. Feelings are real to the one feeling them.
So please, I beg of you. Be kind to one another.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
November 9, 2016
Yesterday was also a momentous day in the Ashbury family. We had two birthdays on November 8—my husband’s, and our second daughter, Sonja’s. It’s difficult with her schedule and our daughter’s, but we work hard to have a time when we can all go out to dinner together, to celebrate. This year, it was the day before yesterday—Monday, the 7th. It makes for a nice party at the local Keg Steakhouse: there’s ten of us. For this occasion, our instructions to the gang have always been to order whatever they want. We usually get a few appetizer platters for sharing, as well. The main courses by themselves are more food than I can eat, but that’s what ‘doggie’ bags are for.
Our two youngest grandchildren have always had a good sense of gastronomic adventure, willing to try anything once. When they were small, they weren’t interested in eating junk food so much as just basic good food. When I had them overnight, especially during the winter, they would often request hot cereal for breakfast, opting for that over their sugar-sweetened favorites. No instant hot cereals in this house, either. Just regular oatmeal, oat bran, cornmeal and cream of wheat, cereals that require good, old fashioned cooking.
When we’d go to the Keg for our annual expensive pig-out, they would happily try mushrooms stuffed with crab, bacon wrapped scallops, or whatever else we ordered as appetizers. Now they’re 16 (granddaughter) and 14 (grandson) and they spent the first part of the evening with their young cousins, my two great-grandbabies who are 3 and 2. It warmed me to see them encourage the little ones to try the appetizers, too. Abby loved the crab stuffing, and Archer, at two years old, was all about those scallops!
There’s something about the rhythm of day to day life, especially at this time of year, that I find comforting. It’s the beat of the music that our souls recognize as we go through the days, one after the other, as the seasons ebb and flow. Colder weather brings out hearty meals, hot cocoa, and snuggling down with a blanket, often more for comfort than for warmth. There are of course, new episodes of our favorite television shows to watch, and there are always lots of good books to read. It can be challenging sometimes to keep the main thing the main thing and to maintain that rhythm from season to season. Distractions can be…well, very distracting. It’s good to have all the very worst distractions over with, at least for the foreseeable future.
It's also at this time of year, especially, that I rue my advancing age. I agree with those of you who will say, without equivocation, that 62 is not old. However, 62 and riddled with arthritis, and with heart disease thrown in along with a side of diabetes makes me a tad too old or maybe ‘challenged’ to do the things my inner self hungers to do. We’re into the meat of autumn now. I should be making pickles and jams, freezing the produce out of the gardens, and generally, getting my “den” ready for the winter to come. The fact that I feel these instinctive urges so keenly this year, more than any in recent memory in fact, tells me we might indeed be in for what the old folks used to call one humdinger of a winter.
I miss gardening, and believe it or not, I even miss those times when I would don my winter gear and go out and shovel snow off the walkway. I think it’s that whole “self-sufficiency” thing that I really miss. I am at the point in my life where I can’t live the way I want to live all by myself. Not if I want to keep the main thing being the main thing.
What is the main thing? For me, right now, it’s focusing on what really matters in life—relationships, community, and a sense that we are all a part of something much bigger than the sum of our parts.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Yesterday was also a momentous day in the Ashbury family. We had two birthdays on November 8—my husband’s, and our second daughter, Sonja’s. It’s difficult with her schedule and our daughter’s, but we work hard to have a time when we can all go out to dinner together, to celebrate. This year, it was the day before yesterday—Monday, the 7th. It makes for a nice party at the local Keg Steakhouse: there’s ten of us. For this occasion, our instructions to the gang have always been to order whatever they want. We usually get a few appetizer platters for sharing, as well. The main courses by themselves are more food than I can eat, but that’s what ‘doggie’ bags are for.
Our two youngest grandchildren have always had a good sense of gastronomic adventure, willing to try anything once. When they were small, they weren’t interested in eating junk food so much as just basic good food. When I had them overnight, especially during the winter, they would often request hot cereal for breakfast, opting for that over their sugar-sweetened favorites. No instant hot cereals in this house, either. Just regular oatmeal, oat bran, cornmeal and cream of wheat, cereals that require good, old fashioned cooking.
When we’d go to the Keg for our annual expensive pig-out, they would happily try mushrooms stuffed with crab, bacon wrapped scallops, or whatever else we ordered as appetizers. Now they’re 16 (granddaughter) and 14 (grandson) and they spent the first part of the evening with their young cousins, my two great-grandbabies who are 3 and 2. It warmed me to see them encourage the little ones to try the appetizers, too. Abby loved the crab stuffing, and Archer, at two years old, was all about those scallops!
There’s something about the rhythm of day to day life, especially at this time of year, that I find comforting. It’s the beat of the music that our souls recognize as we go through the days, one after the other, as the seasons ebb and flow. Colder weather brings out hearty meals, hot cocoa, and snuggling down with a blanket, often more for comfort than for warmth. There are of course, new episodes of our favorite television shows to watch, and there are always lots of good books to read. It can be challenging sometimes to keep the main thing the main thing and to maintain that rhythm from season to season. Distractions can be…well, very distracting. It’s good to have all the very worst distractions over with, at least for the foreseeable future.
It's also at this time of year, especially, that I rue my advancing age. I agree with those of you who will say, without equivocation, that 62 is not old. However, 62 and riddled with arthritis, and with heart disease thrown in along with a side of diabetes makes me a tad too old or maybe ‘challenged’ to do the things my inner self hungers to do. We’re into the meat of autumn now. I should be making pickles and jams, freezing the produce out of the gardens, and generally, getting my “den” ready for the winter to come. The fact that I feel these instinctive urges so keenly this year, more than any in recent memory in fact, tells me we might indeed be in for what the old folks used to call one humdinger of a winter.
I miss gardening, and believe it or not, I even miss those times when I would don my winter gear and go out and shovel snow off the walkway. I think it’s that whole “self-sufficiency” thing that I really miss. I am at the point in my life where I can’t live the way I want to live all by myself. Not if I want to keep the main thing being the main thing.
What is the main thing? For me, right now, it’s focusing on what really matters in life—relationships, community, and a sense that we are all a part of something much bigger than the sum of our parts.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
November 2, 2016
In the aftermath of all the little ghosts, goblins, superheroes and villains who came to our door Monday night (a group I collectively refer to as “the little Halloweeners”), I awoke the next morning to a decidedly dull and winter-threatening sky. The clouds appeared to be what my beloved and I always refer to as a “snow sky”. Well, it is November, and that is usually the first month we get snow. I wondered, what does the Farmer’s Almanac say about this season just technically one month and 20 days away? So of course, being at the keyboard, I decided to find out.
Ugh. I wish I hadn’t looked. To quote: Exceptionally cold–if not downright frigid–winter weather will predominate over parts of the Rockies, Prairies, Great Lakes, Ontario, Quebec, and the Maritime Provinces. Gee, thanks, Farmer’s Almanac. Just what I didn’t want to hear. On the plus side of things, I do have a not yet even one year old furnace. I tend to purchase my groceries so that I likely have about a couple of months’ worth of provisions here—with the exception of those highly perishable commodities like milk and eggs. Maybe I can buy some milk in those cartons that don’t need refrigeration until you open them. Do they still make those? And hey, I know the old timers used to store eggs over the winter in buckets of oil (because chickens don’t lay eggs overmuch in the reduced sunshine time of winter). A light oil, like mineral oil is supposed to work. I’ve heard they also used to use lye. Not sure if I want to put that theory to the test myself, but it is a possibility, I guess.
I’m grateful that at this point in my life I don’t have to do anything I really don’t want to do. When I was younger, I used to make fun of the old folks who liked to more or less hibernate in the winter. Now, being older, I get it. I am trying not to become too much of a hermit, but seriously, I am very happy and comfortable within the walls of my very humble home. The Internet and television keep me apprised of what’s going on in the wider world, I can sit out on my front porch and ruminate if I want to, thus assuring myself of fresh air and sunshine, or, on overcast days like today appears to be, just the fresh air.
I can’t stop the winter from happening. I wouldn’t though, even if I could. The farmers need a good snowfall and cold temperatures to help assure a bountiful planting in the spring, and to provide a good crop of winter-wheat. People who spend the money to have plows installed on the front of their pick-up trucks need some snowfall to allow them to make additional income by plowing parking lots and neighborhood driveways. Not to mention the snowmobile dealers, the ski resorts, and all the others who make their bread and butter from the reality of winter weather.
I can insulate myself against the worst of it, and that I have been doing for the last few years. If it’s too terribly cold, I don’t go outside. It’s not good for a person with heart disease to venture out into the sub-zero conditions, anyway. If the car gets buried in snow, I know that, if my beloved isn’t up to using the snow blower to dig it out, we have a couple of grandsons who can come and do that.
It’s not entirely comfortable for people like my husband and I to admit that we are no longer self-sufficient. There are some things we can’t do, that we need others to do for us. But really, that’s part of the grand scheme of life, don’t you think?
You start out in life as a baby, your every need and most of your wants seen to by another person or two. Then you grow, and mature, and eventually, you have babies of your own. Those babies receive your care and nurturing as you fill every need and most of their wants.
Then you age, and they grow to maturity…and give back. Well, hopefully they give back. There are sadly a lot of elderly persons in assisted living centers who rarely even get a visit from their kids and grandkids. But there are also many who are entering their December years who are held within the loving heart of a caring family.
Life is a movie on a continuous loop. We just need to understand where, exactly, our part comes in.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
In the aftermath of all the little ghosts, goblins, superheroes and villains who came to our door Monday night (a group I collectively refer to as “the little Halloweeners”), I awoke the next morning to a decidedly dull and winter-threatening sky. The clouds appeared to be what my beloved and I always refer to as a “snow sky”. Well, it is November, and that is usually the first month we get snow. I wondered, what does the Farmer’s Almanac say about this season just technically one month and 20 days away? So of course, being at the keyboard, I decided to find out.
Ugh. I wish I hadn’t looked. To quote: Exceptionally cold–if not downright frigid–winter weather will predominate over parts of the Rockies, Prairies, Great Lakes, Ontario, Quebec, and the Maritime Provinces. Gee, thanks, Farmer’s Almanac. Just what I didn’t want to hear. On the plus side of things, I do have a not yet even one year old furnace. I tend to purchase my groceries so that I likely have about a couple of months’ worth of provisions here—with the exception of those highly perishable commodities like milk and eggs. Maybe I can buy some milk in those cartons that don’t need refrigeration until you open them. Do they still make those? And hey, I know the old timers used to store eggs over the winter in buckets of oil (because chickens don’t lay eggs overmuch in the reduced sunshine time of winter). A light oil, like mineral oil is supposed to work. I’ve heard they also used to use lye. Not sure if I want to put that theory to the test myself, but it is a possibility, I guess.
I’m grateful that at this point in my life I don’t have to do anything I really don’t want to do. When I was younger, I used to make fun of the old folks who liked to more or less hibernate in the winter. Now, being older, I get it. I am trying not to become too much of a hermit, but seriously, I am very happy and comfortable within the walls of my very humble home. The Internet and television keep me apprised of what’s going on in the wider world, I can sit out on my front porch and ruminate if I want to, thus assuring myself of fresh air and sunshine, or, on overcast days like today appears to be, just the fresh air.
I can’t stop the winter from happening. I wouldn’t though, even if I could. The farmers need a good snowfall and cold temperatures to help assure a bountiful planting in the spring, and to provide a good crop of winter-wheat. People who spend the money to have plows installed on the front of their pick-up trucks need some snowfall to allow them to make additional income by plowing parking lots and neighborhood driveways. Not to mention the snowmobile dealers, the ski resorts, and all the others who make their bread and butter from the reality of winter weather.
I can insulate myself against the worst of it, and that I have been doing for the last few years. If it’s too terribly cold, I don’t go outside. It’s not good for a person with heart disease to venture out into the sub-zero conditions, anyway. If the car gets buried in snow, I know that, if my beloved isn’t up to using the snow blower to dig it out, we have a couple of grandsons who can come and do that.
It’s not entirely comfortable for people like my husband and I to admit that we are no longer self-sufficient. There are some things we can’t do, that we need others to do for us. But really, that’s part of the grand scheme of life, don’t you think?
You start out in life as a baby, your every need and most of your wants seen to by another person or two. Then you grow, and mature, and eventually, you have babies of your own. Those babies receive your care and nurturing as you fill every need and most of their wants.
Then you age, and they grow to maturity…and give back. Well, hopefully they give back. There are sadly a lot of elderly persons in assisted living centers who rarely even get a visit from their kids and grandkids. But there are also many who are entering their December years who are held within the loving heart of a caring family.
Life is a movie on a continuous loop. We just need to understand where, exactly, our part comes in.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
October 26, 2016
The temperature has dropped and the rain is falling, autumn at it’s best—or worst. We have a walnut tree at the corner of our front porch. Each year, as soon as the walnuts have formed, the tree’s leaves turn yellow and begin to fall. That walnut is the last tree to get its leaves in the spring, and the first to lose them. We’ve already had them raked up once. Unfortunately, this is an exercise that needs to be repeated several times before the snow flies.
The danger for me at this time of year comes when wet leaves on wet wooden steps stand between me and where I have to go. Rubber tip of cane + pressure on same + wet wood and leaves = fall—and not the seasonal kind. That’s the single reason I don’t venture out much—well, that and the fact I can’t leave our dog alone. His separation anxiety is so great now, that neither my beloved nor I want to put him through it. So, if I can take him to my daughter’s place first, I can go out. I do that when I have appointments I must attend. But the general result is, those are the only times I leave the house. I don’t even consider hopping out on a whim to shop or go to lunch. It never crosses my mind to do so. I think my evolution to hermit is nearly complete.
I’m getting older and I no longer really want to traipse all over hell and back. I don’t need to shop beyond the weekly grocery order, and I have food here I can make for pennies on the dollar, so why would I go out to lunch? Of course, there are times when, if the girls are available, we’ll do just that. But they’re both so busy now. Our daughter only has Monday, and every other weekend off. Her days are long, beginning (through the week) when she takes her daddy to work, leaving her house at 5 am to do so, and sometimes not ending her day until 8 or 9 at night. Because she sees clients in the community, her appointments tend to be scattered. If she gets an hour or more break in the day, she’ll often come here to nap (because it’s quieter here). Our Sonja works two jobs as a nurse. The occasions when she is available, for small bits of time in the morning, she comes here and I make her breakfast. We talk, and catch up, and I think those are the only times anyone ‘takes care’ of her by feeding her and just listening. I enjoy those occasions, immensely.
I can’t believe October is nearly done! I’m aware of each day, of course, but they move far too fast for this old woman. In my inner self, I feel as if I’m still 30, still able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. The result of this self-deception is that each day I think I’m going to get a lot more accomplished than I actually do.
It appears as if my beloved is going to get some more practice at being retired, as there may be a temporary shut-down at his job. That’s not an occasion for panic for us the way it would have been in years past. Because we are older, and have been through tough times before, we know how to tighten our belts and make do with less. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to worry about mortgage payments or car payments. We’re very lucky in that regard. We don’t really go out very much, so staying home, keeping busy here, isn’t a hardship for us.
That said, sometimes, tempers wear a little thin when we’re too long in each other’s company, exclusively. So you can be certain I’ll be getting one of the girls to grab “grandpa” at least once a week to either go out for breakfast, or work on something at their homes that needs doing.
Life is a series of compromises, of finding your balance as events occur. The key to getting along, at least in my opinion, is to just roll with the punches when they come, and to understand that nothing is written in stone.
It really is the truth that things don’t come to stay—they come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The temperature has dropped and the rain is falling, autumn at it’s best—or worst. We have a walnut tree at the corner of our front porch. Each year, as soon as the walnuts have formed, the tree’s leaves turn yellow and begin to fall. That walnut is the last tree to get its leaves in the spring, and the first to lose them. We’ve already had them raked up once. Unfortunately, this is an exercise that needs to be repeated several times before the snow flies.
The danger for me at this time of year comes when wet leaves on wet wooden steps stand between me and where I have to go. Rubber tip of cane + pressure on same + wet wood and leaves = fall—and not the seasonal kind. That’s the single reason I don’t venture out much—well, that and the fact I can’t leave our dog alone. His separation anxiety is so great now, that neither my beloved nor I want to put him through it. So, if I can take him to my daughter’s place first, I can go out. I do that when I have appointments I must attend. But the general result is, those are the only times I leave the house. I don’t even consider hopping out on a whim to shop or go to lunch. It never crosses my mind to do so. I think my evolution to hermit is nearly complete.
I’m getting older and I no longer really want to traipse all over hell and back. I don’t need to shop beyond the weekly grocery order, and I have food here I can make for pennies on the dollar, so why would I go out to lunch? Of course, there are times when, if the girls are available, we’ll do just that. But they’re both so busy now. Our daughter only has Monday, and every other weekend off. Her days are long, beginning (through the week) when she takes her daddy to work, leaving her house at 5 am to do so, and sometimes not ending her day until 8 or 9 at night. Because she sees clients in the community, her appointments tend to be scattered. If she gets an hour or more break in the day, she’ll often come here to nap (because it’s quieter here). Our Sonja works two jobs as a nurse. The occasions when she is available, for small bits of time in the morning, she comes here and I make her breakfast. We talk, and catch up, and I think those are the only times anyone ‘takes care’ of her by feeding her and just listening. I enjoy those occasions, immensely.
I can’t believe October is nearly done! I’m aware of each day, of course, but they move far too fast for this old woman. In my inner self, I feel as if I’m still 30, still able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. The result of this self-deception is that each day I think I’m going to get a lot more accomplished than I actually do.
It appears as if my beloved is going to get some more practice at being retired, as there may be a temporary shut-down at his job. That’s not an occasion for panic for us the way it would have been in years past. Because we are older, and have been through tough times before, we know how to tighten our belts and make do with less. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to worry about mortgage payments or car payments. We’re very lucky in that regard. We don’t really go out very much, so staying home, keeping busy here, isn’t a hardship for us.
That said, sometimes, tempers wear a little thin when we’re too long in each other’s company, exclusively. So you can be certain I’ll be getting one of the girls to grab “grandpa” at least once a week to either go out for breakfast, or work on something at their homes that needs doing.
Life is a series of compromises, of finding your balance as events occur. The key to getting along, at least in my opinion, is to just roll with the punches when they come, and to understand that nothing is written in stone.
It really is the truth that things don’t come to stay—they come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
October 19, 2016
When I sit down to begin these essays, I never know what I’m going to write about. I do know, however, which topics I’m not going to write about. The top item on that list is politics.
Since y’all know I have an opinion about almost everything, you can surmise I also have a political opinion. It’s not my place, however, to share that with you. First, although I can argue that it does matter to Canada, and Canadians, what the American government does, since our two countries are so intertwined, I believe it is rude for me to say yea or nay with regard to either of your candidates for President.
I also, for the most part, don’t talk about religion. I believe a person’s faith is a personal thing, and that everyone has free will and the right to choose their own beliefs. Now here, at least, however, you may have gathered from some of my comments, and references over the past several years, that I’m a Christian. I’m pleased to have you know that—that’s me. I’ll also tell you I have never thumped a Bible in my life.
Since you know my faith, it’s time for me to confess to you that when I do sit down to write these essays, I take a few moments to pray, to meditate and yes, to await instructions. This past week and a half, especially, I’ve needed that prayer and meditation because something had been eating at me for several days—since Friday October 8th, in fact. Something had been on my mind, day and night, interfering with my ability to focus, and with my desire to “get on with it.” So this week my pre-essay crafting time was especially poignant for me. So I sat down, quieted my mind, opened my heart, and waited.
Instructions were received, so I knew what I had to write—but this one is going to be difficult.
I need to further preface this essay by telling you I’m not writing this for sympathy. At this point in my life’s journey, I don’t need the sympathy of other people; I have my faith. In truth, I’d really rather not write this essay at all. But I have been convicted by the Spirit to give my testimony. When that happens—and this isn’t the first time it has—I really have no choice but to do what I’m told to do.
My father died when I was eight and a half years old. I cannot, to this day, adequately convey to you the degree to which that singular event rocked my world. I do recall that only a few short months later, my mother “threw her back out” and had to, for several days, lay flat on the sofa in the living room, and needed help to get up.
I recall tearfully asking my big brother if Mommy was going to die, too.
I tell you all this, to let you know a little about the emotional state I was in beginning from the time I was eight and a half, onward. There was no such thing as counseling for kids in those days—at least there wasn’t for me. I felt alone, abandoned, insecure, the youngest of three. My brother was eighteen and a half, and my sister was fourteen and a half when our daddy died. My mother worked full time as a nurse, and had to work shifts—either days (seven to three) or afternoons (three to eleven).
I didn’t know at the time that my sister “ran wild”. I’d had no idea she’d been doing so even before my father passed. All I knew was my daddy had died, and life just wasn’t the same.
The first time I was raped I was nine years old. My mother was on the afternoon shift, my brother was out with his friends, and my sister, nearly sixteen years old at the time, received two male callers—one she took upstairs with her, and one she left downstairs with me.
These were grown men, not teenaged boys, and this was something that occurred several times for the next year or so.
I won’t give you any details, except this one: when my rapist was finished, he told me, “don’t you tell anyone. If you tell your mom, she won’t believe you. She will hate you, and send you away. They will lock you up.” That also became the threat, in subsequent times, with subsequent attackers, beforehand.
I guess you could say I was raped, and terrorized repeatedly.
That terrorizing is something that I believe all sexual abuse victims know very well—that most women, even those who haven’t been abused feel the echoes of in their souls—and something not even the most sympathetic, enlightened and well-meaning male will ever fully comprehend. In those days they called rape “a fate worse than death.”
That terrorizing—by others, and by tradition—is the reason why most women do not report sexual abuse. Situation normal in our society is still to blame the woman, the victim, or to simply not believe her.
It took me years to get help; if you need help, please, contact a mental health professional in your area, someone with whom you can feel comfortable enough with to get that help. I know how hard it is to reach out, but please, be brave and do so. And to comfort you, let me tell you what else I know, without a doubt, and without equivocation.
Only the most moronic of morons would ever suggest that a woman or women would open herself/themselves up to such scrutiny as she/they do when stepping forward and giving an account of sexual abuse, for the purpose of, and I think I have this quote right, “I’d don’t know, maybe because they want to become famous or something”.
And only the most ignorant and narcissistic misogynist would judge the validity of a sexual abuse clam by referencing whether or not the woman was “pretty enough” to violate.
Because we know better, all of us, we really do.
Sexual abuse, and rape, these are not at all about sex. It’s violence and it’s about power, control, and ego. And it’s a way for truly inadequate, pathetic, maladjusted and yes, evil men to make themselves feel powerful.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
When I sit down to begin these essays, I never know what I’m going to write about. I do know, however, which topics I’m not going to write about. The top item on that list is politics.
Since y’all know I have an opinion about almost everything, you can surmise I also have a political opinion. It’s not my place, however, to share that with you. First, although I can argue that it does matter to Canada, and Canadians, what the American government does, since our two countries are so intertwined, I believe it is rude for me to say yea or nay with regard to either of your candidates for President.
I also, for the most part, don’t talk about religion. I believe a person’s faith is a personal thing, and that everyone has free will and the right to choose their own beliefs. Now here, at least, however, you may have gathered from some of my comments, and references over the past several years, that I’m a Christian. I’m pleased to have you know that—that’s me. I’ll also tell you I have never thumped a Bible in my life.
Since you know my faith, it’s time for me to confess to you that when I do sit down to write these essays, I take a few moments to pray, to meditate and yes, to await instructions. This past week and a half, especially, I’ve needed that prayer and meditation because something had been eating at me for several days—since Friday October 8th, in fact. Something had been on my mind, day and night, interfering with my ability to focus, and with my desire to “get on with it.” So this week my pre-essay crafting time was especially poignant for me. So I sat down, quieted my mind, opened my heart, and waited.
Instructions were received, so I knew what I had to write—but this one is going to be difficult.
I need to further preface this essay by telling you I’m not writing this for sympathy. At this point in my life’s journey, I don’t need the sympathy of other people; I have my faith. In truth, I’d really rather not write this essay at all. But I have been convicted by the Spirit to give my testimony. When that happens—and this isn’t the first time it has—I really have no choice but to do what I’m told to do.
My father died when I was eight and a half years old. I cannot, to this day, adequately convey to you the degree to which that singular event rocked my world. I do recall that only a few short months later, my mother “threw her back out” and had to, for several days, lay flat on the sofa in the living room, and needed help to get up.
I recall tearfully asking my big brother if Mommy was going to die, too.
I tell you all this, to let you know a little about the emotional state I was in beginning from the time I was eight and a half, onward. There was no such thing as counseling for kids in those days—at least there wasn’t for me. I felt alone, abandoned, insecure, the youngest of three. My brother was eighteen and a half, and my sister was fourteen and a half when our daddy died. My mother worked full time as a nurse, and had to work shifts—either days (seven to three) or afternoons (three to eleven).
I didn’t know at the time that my sister “ran wild”. I’d had no idea she’d been doing so even before my father passed. All I knew was my daddy had died, and life just wasn’t the same.
The first time I was raped I was nine years old. My mother was on the afternoon shift, my brother was out with his friends, and my sister, nearly sixteen years old at the time, received two male callers—one she took upstairs with her, and one she left downstairs with me.
These were grown men, not teenaged boys, and this was something that occurred several times for the next year or so.
I won’t give you any details, except this one: when my rapist was finished, he told me, “don’t you tell anyone. If you tell your mom, she won’t believe you. She will hate you, and send you away. They will lock you up.” That also became the threat, in subsequent times, with subsequent attackers, beforehand.
I guess you could say I was raped, and terrorized repeatedly.
That terrorizing is something that I believe all sexual abuse victims know very well—that most women, even those who haven’t been abused feel the echoes of in their souls—and something not even the most sympathetic, enlightened and well-meaning male will ever fully comprehend. In those days they called rape “a fate worse than death.”
That terrorizing—by others, and by tradition—is the reason why most women do not report sexual abuse. Situation normal in our society is still to blame the woman, the victim, or to simply not believe her.
It took me years to get help; if you need help, please, contact a mental health professional in your area, someone with whom you can feel comfortable enough with to get that help. I know how hard it is to reach out, but please, be brave and do so. And to comfort you, let me tell you what else I know, without a doubt, and without equivocation.
Only the most moronic of morons would ever suggest that a woman or women would open herself/themselves up to such scrutiny as she/they do when stepping forward and giving an account of sexual abuse, for the purpose of, and I think I have this quote right, “I’d don’t know, maybe because they want to become famous or something”.
And only the most ignorant and narcissistic misogynist would judge the validity of a sexual abuse clam by referencing whether or not the woman was “pretty enough” to violate.
Because we know better, all of us, we really do.
Sexual abuse, and rape, these are not at all about sex. It’s violence and it’s about power, control, and ego. And it’s a way for truly inadequate, pathetic, maladjusted and yes, evil men to make themselves feel powerful.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
October 12, 2016
This past Monday was Thanksgiving Day here in Canada. It’s a holiday we’ve always celebrated, at least during my lifetime. I believe I’ve mentioned before, that as a child in grades one through three, we always created pictures using the images of Pilgrims and Indians and pumpkins and that first Thanksgiving feast of lore, celebrating the first harvest in the New World.
It wasn’t until I became much older, that I realized the concept of the holiday we celebrated was in fact American. This didn’t bother me, of course. There are more similarities between Canadians and Americans than a lot of people truly realize.
That said, the way our two countries came into being is vastly different, and that difference is ingrained in our innate and distinctive ‘national’ characters.
The United States came into being as the result of the melding of Continental Congresses and armed rebellion—the War of Independence in 1776. Canada came into being as the result of the melding of Confederation Conferences, and an act of British Parliament—The British North America Act of 1867—nearly a hundred years later.
Those national births, so different one from the other, go a long way toward explaining the major difference between our two peoples: Americans hold as a sacred right, that right to bear arms; Canadians don’t have that ingrained in their DNA. Arms are not a national symbol to us, as they played no part in the foundation of our country.
And yet, Canadians joined their American neighbors to fight in the same wars since the twentieth century, and on the same side in those wars. Canadians were automatically at war on the same day as Great Britain in the first Great War; Canadians hit the beach on D-Day during the second Great War. Canadians have served in Korea, Viet Nam (in that case, volunteering to serve in the US armed forces in order to do so), have been stationed in Kandahar and our Navy participated in Desert Storm.
Yes, by the numbers, our losses have been less than those of our neighbors to the south, but our Military is so very much smaller, that proportionately, our losses were actually greater.
When we give thanks at this time of year, it’s for the same basic things as our American friends. We’re grateful to live in a nation that is mostly peaceful. We’re grateful to be raising our families in societies that value democracy and the rule of law, and individual rights. We’re grateful for these blessings, and the opportunity to pursue our dreams, and to make our own way in the world.
We’re good neighbors, and good friends. We have each others backs, and are ready to help, when help is needed. Our Thanksgiving is always in October, I would suggest, because this is harvest time for us north of the 49th. We even have our own version of black Friday—but we get two of those: our own, and the one the day after the American Thanksgiving, too.
We really do have more in common than that which makes us different. Going forward, I know that we will remain good friends, good neighbors, and staunch allies.
To my Canadian readers, I hope you had a good Thanksgiving!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
This past Monday was Thanksgiving Day here in Canada. It’s a holiday we’ve always celebrated, at least during my lifetime. I believe I’ve mentioned before, that as a child in grades one through three, we always created pictures using the images of Pilgrims and Indians and pumpkins and that first Thanksgiving feast of lore, celebrating the first harvest in the New World.
It wasn’t until I became much older, that I realized the concept of the holiday we celebrated was in fact American. This didn’t bother me, of course. There are more similarities between Canadians and Americans than a lot of people truly realize.
That said, the way our two countries came into being is vastly different, and that difference is ingrained in our innate and distinctive ‘national’ characters.
The United States came into being as the result of the melding of Continental Congresses and armed rebellion—the War of Independence in 1776. Canada came into being as the result of the melding of Confederation Conferences, and an act of British Parliament—The British North America Act of 1867—nearly a hundred years later.
Those national births, so different one from the other, go a long way toward explaining the major difference between our two peoples: Americans hold as a sacred right, that right to bear arms; Canadians don’t have that ingrained in their DNA. Arms are not a national symbol to us, as they played no part in the foundation of our country.
And yet, Canadians joined their American neighbors to fight in the same wars since the twentieth century, and on the same side in those wars. Canadians were automatically at war on the same day as Great Britain in the first Great War; Canadians hit the beach on D-Day during the second Great War. Canadians have served in Korea, Viet Nam (in that case, volunteering to serve in the US armed forces in order to do so), have been stationed in Kandahar and our Navy participated in Desert Storm.
Yes, by the numbers, our losses have been less than those of our neighbors to the south, but our Military is so very much smaller, that proportionately, our losses were actually greater.
When we give thanks at this time of year, it’s for the same basic things as our American friends. We’re grateful to live in a nation that is mostly peaceful. We’re grateful to be raising our families in societies that value democracy and the rule of law, and individual rights. We’re grateful for these blessings, and the opportunity to pursue our dreams, and to make our own way in the world.
We’re good neighbors, and good friends. We have each others backs, and are ready to help, when help is needed. Our Thanksgiving is always in October, I would suggest, because this is harvest time for us north of the 49th. We even have our own version of black Friday—but we get two of those: our own, and the one the day after the American Thanksgiving, too.
We really do have more in common than that which makes us different. Going forward, I know that we will remain good friends, good neighbors, and staunch allies.
To my Canadian readers, I hope you had a good Thanksgiving!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
October 5, 2016
Well, it certainly is autumn, at least in my neck of the woods.
The last few days have been chilly and wet—all right, comparatively chilly at around fifty to 60 degrees. The rain really is a blessing, even if the combination of cool and damp plays hell with my arthritis. My beloved has also been feeling the affects of “uncle Arthur” in recent times. He came in the door from work the other day, and I knew he was suffering. Friends, I have to tell you, this getting older is not for the faint of heart.
This year as winter approaches, I feel a particular urge to prepare to hunker down, and I’m not sure where that urge is coming from. There is so much uncertainty in the world, so many people afraid of so many things—a real sense that something bad is just around the corner. It almost seems as if this pessimism has become an infection, infiltrating our water and spreading into our air, a contamination that is quickly becoming a global pandemic. Such an almost palpable thing is this sense of impending doom, that it seems as if in the last couple of months, we’ve slipped back a few big paces on the societal-evolutionary scale.
There is a part of me that wants to run out into the woods, find a deep cave or dig a deep hole, and hibernate for the next few months. Or maybe I can settle for crawling into bed, pulling the blankets over my head, and sticking my thumb in my mouth. Why, oh why was I in such a darn rush to grow up, when I was a kid? I never knew just how good I had it. If only I could go back to the good old days…but of course I can’t. There is no going back to the good old days for anyone, and there are no do-overs in the real world.
It just goes to show you that no matter how deeply a person believes in maintaining optimism, the pull of the dark and the dank and the dangerous is very real, and very strong. Even the faithful feel the tug of fear, depression, and surrender. The difference, of course, lies not in what one may feel at any give moment, but in the choices one makes in the face of such emotions.
It is really hard to keep the faith and believe that everything will work out the way it’s meant to be when all the news is so darned dismal. Most of my energy is being used in this very endeavor—keeping the faith, and believing.
I decided to pull in a little, and instead of focusing on the big picture which, at the moment, seems to have gone “off station” a bit, I’m focusing instead on the little things.
First, and always, I count my blessings. Yes, you may hear strains of Bing Crosby singing that song from the movie, White Christmas—and by the way, do I ever miss musicals! But counting my blessings is important because it puts me in the only frame of mind that will see me through the tough times ahead. That attitude is gratitude, and if I fill myself up with being grateful for all the many blessings I have, there’s not much room left for negative thoughts to grow.
I have a roof over my head, and in case any of y’all think I live in one of those fancy houses, think again. Mine needs a lot of work, fortunately most of it cosmetic. Seriously, my living room ceiling looks like it wants to come down, but it’s looked that way since 2006. Some things are getting done, little by little, but as I said, we have a roof. We have four walls, and a working furnace, clean water coming out of the tap, and this house, such as it is, is mortgage free.
We have food in the cupboard and the freezer, and our bills are paid each month. There’s nothing “rich” about the way we live, except for our attitudes of gratitude.
So I am going to hunker down. I’m going to appreciate the heat that comforts me, the water that quenches my thirst, the food that sates my hunger—and the fellowship I find both live and online, a connection to others that if we let it, can sustain us all through the darkest of times.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Well, it certainly is autumn, at least in my neck of the woods.
The last few days have been chilly and wet—all right, comparatively chilly at around fifty to 60 degrees. The rain really is a blessing, even if the combination of cool and damp plays hell with my arthritis. My beloved has also been feeling the affects of “uncle Arthur” in recent times. He came in the door from work the other day, and I knew he was suffering. Friends, I have to tell you, this getting older is not for the faint of heart.
This year as winter approaches, I feel a particular urge to prepare to hunker down, and I’m not sure where that urge is coming from. There is so much uncertainty in the world, so many people afraid of so many things—a real sense that something bad is just around the corner. It almost seems as if this pessimism has become an infection, infiltrating our water and spreading into our air, a contamination that is quickly becoming a global pandemic. Such an almost palpable thing is this sense of impending doom, that it seems as if in the last couple of months, we’ve slipped back a few big paces on the societal-evolutionary scale.
There is a part of me that wants to run out into the woods, find a deep cave or dig a deep hole, and hibernate for the next few months. Or maybe I can settle for crawling into bed, pulling the blankets over my head, and sticking my thumb in my mouth. Why, oh why was I in such a darn rush to grow up, when I was a kid? I never knew just how good I had it. If only I could go back to the good old days…but of course I can’t. There is no going back to the good old days for anyone, and there are no do-overs in the real world.
It just goes to show you that no matter how deeply a person believes in maintaining optimism, the pull of the dark and the dank and the dangerous is very real, and very strong. Even the faithful feel the tug of fear, depression, and surrender. The difference, of course, lies not in what one may feel at any give moment, but in the choices one makes in the face of such emotions.
It is really hard to keep the faith and believe that everything will work out the way it’s meant to be when all the news is so darned dismal. Most of my energy is being used in this very endeavor—keeping the faith, and believing.
I decided to pull in a little, and instead of focusing on the big picture which, at the moment, seems to have gone “off station” a bit, I’m focusing instead on the little things.
First, and always, I count my blessings. Yes, you may hear strains of Bing Crosby singing that song from the movie, White Christmas—and by the way, do I ever miss musicals! But counting my blessings is important because it puts me in the only frame of mind that will see me through the tough times ahead. That attitude is gratitude, and if I fill myself up with being grateful for all the many blessings I have, there’s not much room left for negative thoughts to grow.
I have a roof over my head, and in case any of y’all think I live in one of those fancy houses, think again. Mine needs a lot of work, fortunately most of it cosmetic. Seriously, my living room ceiling looks like it wants to come down, but it’s looked that way since 2006. Some things are getting done, little by little, but as I said, we have a roof. We have four walls, and a working furnace, clean water coming out of the tap, and this house, such as it is, is mortgage free.
We have food in the cupboard and the freezer, and our bills are paid each month. There’s nothing “rich” about the way we live, except for our attitudes of gratitude.
So I am going to hunker down. I’m going to appreciate the heat that comforts me, the water that quenches my thirst, the food that sates my hunger—and the fellowship I find both live and online, a connection to others that if we let it, can sustain us all through the darkest of times.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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