covid · Spiritual

Vaxxed or Unvaxxed, Kindness Counts More

By: JANA GREENE

The bottom portion of this post is copied from a friend. The rest is my opining about it…I would love to see it be a conversation starter!

You see, whether you’re vaxxed or not, I don’t think less of you. Matter of fact, I suspect you’re doing the best you can and made decisions that are best for you and your family.

I think we are ALL just trying to make the best decisions about our health in an unprecedented age; NONE of us have ever been through a pandemic before.

So can we please stop calling people “sheep,” it’s condescending and unhelpful. Please stop insinuating that those who won’t get vaxxed don’t care about the rest of humanity. Please stop considering those who get vaxxed “idiots,”and those who refuse to get the jab “idiots.”

My God, the division is worse than anything a vaccination could do.

Sometimes it’s not about the government pulling one over on us (though admittedly, I don’t have the greatest respect for the government.) It’s about doing what we can safely do, with the incomplete and often unsubstantiated information we get from said government.

We have all become like bullies in a school yard purporting “my way or the highway,” haughtily sure than our way is the only “right” way.

I’ve had enough. If you are vaxxed, thank you. And if you are in vaxxed, I’m sure you had GOOD reasons for choosing that path. Yes, we are all responsible for each other in life, but calling one another names and puffing up with righteous indignity (on either side,) is a misuse of that responsibility and a damn, crying shame.

If you got the jab, I love you. We consider our options with seriousness too.

If you felt it wasn’t right for you, hey…I love you.

Can we please try to do better?

I feel like if this thing wipes out part of humanity, who would want to inherit the earth, given the gaslighting, blaming, and disdain we are showing one another?

Keep it a world worth continuing.

Keep it kind. (Or MAKE it kinder!)

Peace out.

“Yes I’m FULLY vaccinated and, no, I don’t know what’s in it – neither this vaccine, the ones I had as a child, nor in the 11 secret herbs and spices at KFC, or hot dogs, or other treatments, whether it’s for cancer, AIDS, pneumonia, or vaccines for infants or children.
I also don’t know what’s in Ibuprofen, Tylenol, or other meds, it just cures my headaches & my pains.
I don’t know what’s in the ink for tattoos, vaping, Botox and fillers, or every ingredient in my soap or shampoo or even deodorants.
I don’t know the long term effect of mobile phone use or whether or not that restaurant I just ate at REALLY used clean foods and washed their hands.
In short …
There are a lot of things I don’t know and never will. I just know one thing: life is short, very short, and I still want to do something other than just staying locked in my home. I still want to travel and hug people without fear and find a little feeling of life “before.”
As a child and as an adult I’ve been vaccinated for mumps, measles, polio, chickenpox, and quite a few others; my parents and I trusted the science and never had to suffer through or transmit any of the said diseases.
I’m vaccinated, not to please the government but:

  • To not die from Covid-19.
  • To not clutter a hospital bed if I get sick.
  • To hug my loved ones
  • To try and spread the virus as little as possible.
  • To live my life.
  • To see and hug my family and friends
  • For Covid-19 to be an old memory.
  • To protect my family and others.
    Text copied, feel free to do the same!
Spiritual · writing

The Beggar’s Bakery is About to turn 10 Years Old (and I’m a Different Writer Now)

BY: JANA GREENE

Hello, friends.

I was noting to my husband last week that my readership has shrunk. It’s not a numbers game, don’t get me wrong. I would much rather have a small readership that is touched, entertained, enjoyed by several people than have a large readership but crank out mediocre content.

Here’s the thing, though. Life is chock full of mediocre content. Life sometimes IS mediocre content.

I was considering this when my husband replied with, “Well you don’t blog very often anymore.” Which is the gospel truth.

The past few years, I don’t post at all unless I’ve had some kind of epiphany to share, or I’m low on hormones and need to vent, or I have something inspiring to say. Why have I gotten into that habit? What about when I’m not feeling encouraging and just want a safe place where I can share my heart, even when my heart is boring and uninspired?

WRITE ANYWAY. That’s when I’m happiest.

I can’t always wait until I in crisis mode to write. It creates a jamb where there should be flow.

This blog is nothing like the one I started in 2012. I was of the “super Christian” persuasion then, full of quoting scripture and doling out pat advice about “trusting the Lord,” If I had a particularly awful day, I would write sweeping tales of how it’s all going to work out because God is in it. What would people THINK of me, if I was 100% authentic and open about doubting faith? It might throw a kink into my Pollyanna-esque style of writing. There’s nothing “super Christian” about that!

It’s true, in that I believe ultimately God IS working in our best interest.

But truth is also looking around you and admitting the world is whack.

I’m a much different writer than I was when I started this crazy thing. I’ll never forget gaining 45 followers the first day and being incredulous that anybody would want to hear what I have to say.

And then there was that one time I went legit viral and got a quarter million hits to ONE blog post. I thought I may actually get to make a living at writing, but the truth is, I make zero money from writing. It is its own reward and I’m okay with that now.

Ten years ago, when I started this blog, I was chronically sick but we couldn’t figure out why. It took many years, many doctors, and many bouts with depression to find out that I have genetic conditions that will affect me the rest of my life. It explained SO MUCH about me since I was born – the injuries, the illnesses. But there’s no cure, and I think it’s about the time I found out my diagnosis that the Pollyanna fell away, little by little.

My faith took a beating too, but came out victorious anyway, if not in an altogether different way.

I told myself in the beginning, I would write honest, or not write at all.

It’s writing honestly about the fact that I’m losing mobility and I’m in horrible health.

It’s being truthful about mental illness struggles, without wondering what everyone “thinks.”

It’s about grieving losses that I told myself I should be “over” by now, and making no apologies for it.

It’s about celebrating little victories and sharing kooky, dopey little stories.

My dream when I write is that somewhere out there, someone I love (or even a perfect stranger) will not feel so damn alone. Because life is HARD, peeps.

If writing is therapy, as I’ve always espoused, then I should probably practice it more often. It’s my way of un-smooshing all my feelings down. So I think I’m going to try to write a little each day. (The “general public” is made up of one sweet, unique soul at a time, anyway.)

I hope you glean a little somethin-somethin’ by reading The Beggar’s Bakery. I am so very glad you’re here, and honored you’d take the time to read my work.

On this – the eve of my blog’s 10th birthday – I am making a resolution to write more. Even if it’s sub-par prose. Even if it’s about vapid, inconsequential things. Especially if I’m struggling and hurting. Especially then.

Thank you SO much for being a part of my journey. God bless us, every one.

Christmas · Depression · Spiritual

A Case of the “Christmas Sads”

By: JANA GREENE

I am an emotional wreck lately.
Just really rather unhinged.
Thinking about the fragmentation of my family of origin, and how necessary estrangements still suck, even if for the sake of boundaries.
On the one hand, it’s Christmas, the Holly-jolliest season of all. I flippin’ love everything about it.
On the other hand, losses that are usually manageable seem like big, emotional gaping canyons.
My mind keeps “going there,” but I’m trying to go ahead and feel my feelings, rather than eating them, spending them, or smooshing them down and down. Smooshed feelings manifest in nasty ways and I’ve been in therapy too damn long to smoosh emotions down.
I have cried more in the past few days than the entire year prior combined. Fat waves of sadness knock me on my keister several times a day.
But I don’t want to be sad at all. I want to bliss out over all the sparkling, warm Christmasness, and enjoy all that I have NOT lost. And there is a whole lot to be grateful for.
It’s just a tough season. Writing about it (and consequently, I guess, “oversharing” it) helps me cope.
With pain, physical and otherwise.
With feeling alone.
With purging it with words.
Whether you’re missing someone, grieving a loss, hurting, or alone … I’m sending you huge hugs.
God bless us all.

Poetry

Come Sit by Me, Anger

Photo by Monstera on Pexels.com

BY: JANA GREENE

I made a new friend today,

Well,

I’ve known her a long time.

Her name is Anger and

we’ve been frienemies as far back

as I can remember.

She introduced herself

when I was just a little girl,

but she scared me with her

suffocating presence in my home

and in my heart.

Don’t be angry…it’s unbecoming!

That’s the message driven

into us little girls

like railroad spikes.

And we accept it

because we are told

it’s for a good cause…

our “betterment,”

but mostly for the betterment

Of others,

as it turns out.

So I substituted Anger with Sadness

For most of my life,

hoping no one would notice,

least of all myself.

As it turns out,

anger and Sadness are

thick as thieves.

Two sides of the same coin, really.

Sadness is safer

because it’s familiar.

“Be a good girl,” I said to Me,

my whole life,

especially when I was only little.

“Who are you to be angry?

Anger is reserved for people

Who can afford to

Lose other people.

Angry people are accustomed

To being generally safe.

No one is going to abandon them,

It’s a luxury –

being comfortable with Anger.

And the tax on that luxury

is cold, steel fear.

Because when I’m angry,

I wonder…

what if this person sees

that pissed off side of me,

and leaves…

just closes up shop.

What if I’m too much.

or not enough?

Don’t be angry….You’re too sensitive!…

And the insult of invalidation stings.

I’m old hat

at recognizing a good gaslighting.

I cut my teeth on the manipulation

Of others.

Don’t be angry…it’s not the Christian way…

Aside from one lousy

and very profound table-turning,

Jesus seemed never to act in anger again.

But I believe

Jesus was TICKED on occasion.

Oy vey! How could he NOT be?

Don’t be angry…it’s unfeminine.

Not ladylike at all.

Be meek.

Be mild.

You have a feminine mystique

image to foster.

To which I say…

Welcome, Anger.

I was taught not to associate with

the likes of you.

I was told you would disappoint people

If we hung out.

If I entertained you at all.

Come sit by me, Anger.

It’s okay to use your outdoor voice.

It’s okay to get mad.

This, I tell myself,

as I grab hold of Anger’s hand,

And be okay

With me.

Poetry

Winter Rains (and Spirit Pains)

Photo by Antonio Dillard on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

Hi, Readers. I wrote this poem at 18 years of age, during a really difficult time of upheaval. It rained and rained and rained that winter. I feel like maybe God gave this jumble of words to me at just the right time. So, read gently please. I was just a kid. Blessed be, friends.

The winter rains are cooler now,

The mystic love, it floods my soul,

Gray and blue from above,

And soft brown ground below.

The winter rains seem freer now,

In liberation they have cried,

As water from the sky

Is unrelenting, so I try

To let it flood me,

Embrace the rain,

So I can feel whole again.

I feel no more the dreadful fear,

That made my soul to hate the rain,

The downfalls, they lay bare my soul,

Until I’m drenched again.

The winter rains are plentiful,

But I see them now as water flows,

A season I choose to live quenched,

A season in which I can grow.

Health

“Can You Hear Me Now?” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Photo by Breakingpic on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

Hi, Readers.

There has been a little saga going on in which I develop dual raging ear infections as of late. I hadn’t had an ear infection in eons prior to this year, mostly I get sinus infections. But this year – for so MANY, MANY reasons, was different.

By the way – toddlers are universally correct about this one – ear infections SUCK. They hurt like hell and make you dizzy and prone to bad moods. So suffice to say, I went to the doctor, who confirmed the double infections, and was put on strong antibiotics. That was last week.

So THIS week, I go the the ENT to make sure the infections had cleared. I am happy to report, they have. So that could be the end of the story, if the ENT hadn’t decided to do an auditory test, since it had been probably 10 years since I had my hearing tested.

No problem. Cool. Let’s do it.

After the test, the doctor parked me in an examining room and came in to give me the results.

“About your hearing test,” he starts with.

I do an audible guffaw, if guffawing was a noise. “Well, I guess I went to too many hair band concerts in the 80’s hahahaha,” say I.

He does not laugh.

“Mrs. Greene,” he starts. “You have moderate hearing loss.”

“Huh,” I state. “Well at least I don’t need hearing aids yet!” Says my inner internal optimist, who should really just shut the hell up most of the time. She’s usually wrong. This is why I usually just avoid the middle man and assume the worst.

“Well, about that….” says he.

“But I’m 52 years old!” I tell him, which hastens him to flip through my chart.

“Almost 53…”

“WHAT??” I say, prophetically I suppose.

Yall, I cannot tell you how depressing this news is. Aside from a janky faith, quirky family, dearly beloved animals, and sick sense of humor, it’s MUSIC that sees me through. Music gets me physically high. It changes the landscape of my mind, which – if you mapped it out – is naturally full of cragginess, hidden sinkholes, and all manner of detour signs.

“WHAT???” is a frequent sentiment these days.

Remember that stupid, morbid game we all played as kids, ‘Would you rather be deaf or blind’? I always go with blind. Not that I’d like to be blind – I love the ability to see – but I cannot fathom life without music. I was the kid in Kindergarten who had to wear an eye patch for lazy eye. My glasses are thicc, honey child. But even with my eyes closed, I can “see” music.

Music has auras. I can “smell” music, at times. It’s called synesthesia, and its one more thing that makes me a weirdo, but happily so. Most of the other things that make me a weirdo are just plain weird, not at all endearing. So I love my sense of sound.

Am I being dramatic? Probably. But this is the year that has aged me 10 years in a multitude of ways. This year alone, I have learned my kidneys are crapping out. I’ve gone from a few gray hairs to becoming pretty white-headed. I’ve lost stamina and muscle tone, and lost an unhealthy amount of weight in a short amount of time from worsening gastroperesis, and had to be hospitalized once because of a gastric bleed.

Yadda yadda blah blah blah, yes it sounds like a pity party, but it also sounds like the woes of a person much (or at least a little) aged than me, chronic illness or not.

The icing on the cake that is 2021 is depression. It’s a depression sadder and more resigned than angry and hostile. It’s a defeatist strain of the thing. On the heels of 2020, which I think we all can agree felt like being punked by the Universe, this year of “But wait….there’s MORE!” has got me really struggling.

I don’t even have the energy to be passionate about this round of depression. Usually, I work my depression out by getting pissed at it, emotionally stomping around a bit, depending on the help of others, getting extra therapy, etc. But I don’t have it in me this time. You know the “shrug” emoji?

LIFE: “There are NEW strains of Covid…”

ME: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “You cannot eat gluten. Or much sugar. Or have caffeine, so say goodbye to your beloved real coffee…”

ME: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “Your kidneys are actively failing.”

ME: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “You will have some level of pain every moment of your existence….”

ME: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “Some is the pain is unbearable.”

ME: \_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “You will lose your mobility…”

LIFE: “You’ll stop writing and painting, and not even really care….”

ME: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LIFE: “ANNNNND, you will need hearing aids in the not-so-distant future…”

ME: Okay, enough. WTF??? I’M 52!”

LIFE: “¯\_(ツ)_/¯”

So here I am – finally doing a little writing. Not because it will slow down any of the above or even help any of it. But maybe it will help me deal with this shitty low-grade depression of resignation.

What is the difference between acceptance and resignation? That’s a question for my therapist to help me explore. Because I can’t figure it out myself.

In the meantime….

The nice ENT is ready to help me get into some hearing aids “whenever I feel ready.”

I continue to eat food that is neither tasty, nor satisfying to the soul. Like real bread.

I try very hard to remind myself that so many have it so much worse, but honestly…the more shit that goes wrong with my body, the less prominently into my toolbox of positive thinking. I have to grieve my limitations.

I do All The Things I’m supposed to with dull, necessary regularity.

But deep inside I am neither dull nor resigned. I’m wild and free, listening to the BEST music at the LOUDEST volume. I’m full of off-color humor and love for the divine, and laughter, even when of the ‘gallows’ variety.

So I cry. And complain. And try to accept. And…

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And to the Universe, a question: “WHAT???”

Come shrug along with me, and we will figure out acceptance together.

One minor crisis at a time.

Mental Health · Spiritual

When Thanksgiving Means Canceling Perfection

By: Jana Greene

It’s not a great Thanksgiving.
It’s not even a good Thanksgiving. About to launch into avent sesh. Sorry in advance.

The whole entire day was a comedy of errors.
Oh my God, the anxiety. Plus, I woke up and couldn’t eat food. I’ve had four bites of oatmeal and about a tablespoon of each token TG food all day today. That’s it.

Food is my love language. And Thanksgiving is a Foodie high holy day. And I mean absolutely no sacrilege. Just facts.

I’m having a nasty gastroperesis flare, which is setting off a pain flare, which…you get the picture. My left side of my face had been numb for hours. Auras and face numbness are my harbinger off migraines. It’s what let’s me know it’s coming.

I’m sharing my day, I hope maybe someone else who is inordinately emotional today won’t feel alone. There’s this Norman Rockwell standard, you know? We expect it to be some type of way.

So worsening pain, complex family dynamics, cranberry sauce boiled over in a sticky mess. My knee is going out. I’ve been up since 4 am. I’m tired, weepy, emotional, and could easily slip into sadness.

Thanksgiving is a loaded holiday for me, as there is no contact with my family of origin. Sometimes I get tired of my life behind “pre-“ and “post” sobriety. Before and after. SO much is old me vs. new me. I’ve reinvented myself and I’m kind of proud of that. My new life is my heart’s desire, but sometimes I miss the key players who shaped me. It’s so odd. And painful.

But I can only be but so sad, really. Then I barrel through it.

When things started going sideways today – which was right outta the gate this morning – I said to myself, “Well, I guess I have a spiritual thing to learn today that can only be illuminated by a certain set of circumstances.”

My old spiraling behavior rears up on occasion. It is born of exhaustion, making mistakes, and burning myself out.

I’m taking the “shrug” approach. Whelp. I guess this day wasn’t meant to be easy. Maybe it’s an opportunity to grow.

Who the heck even knows. Certainly not me.
This is how I’m trying to learn to cope with what passes for normal life in 2021: Own the mistakes, ask what very difficult things are teaching me, be deliberate about gratitude (and STAY deliberate about it.)

I’ve been doing a lot of work in acceptance. And truly, I admit to being outrageously blessed. Just not blessed with perfection, in ANY area.

At some point, being imperfect has to be “perfect” enough.

By the way, having your therapist tel you she’s proud of you? Yeah. It doesn’t get a whole lot better than that. ❤️

love · Spiritual

The Messy, Glorious Business of LOVE

BY: JANA GREENE

Love is the singular thing, and absolutely everything, all at once.
All are in it and of it, imbued with this remedy.
It is the answer to whatever ails your heart.
Love is all that lives on after our Earth Suits fail.
It is fed and starved by a thousand moods, yet always nourishes.
Love lands in its feet.
It’s the only thing we were legit created to experience.
Love is like sacred oil – fragrant and dousing and scandalously generous. It leaves a film on you all of your days, and everyone in your world gets a little “oily” when you touch their lives. (Touch them lots!)
Love pisses people off when it is believed undeserved, when really people are under-served by it.
It breaks the economy of deficit, as its endless.
But even though it’s free, people seem to like hoarding it. Many enjoy rationing it, as if there was a finite supply.
As if it originated for us, by us.
As if we weren’t given it in order to pass it on.
Love is a Being.
And a Doing.
It’s an action and a sacrifice.
The feet of Love can walk through fire to get to another hurting soul, and strike up a dance to celebrate itself.
Love has wings to fly us to a place of acceptance, and roller skates with which to flee from hate in all its forms.
It’s the only thing that will ever make a dent in suffering, and the ultimate remedy for pain.
Love is all we take with us.
Spread that stuff around copiously.
God loves you and so do I. ❤️

migraine · Spiritual

Migraine: The Grand Poobah of Headachery

Somebody make it stop.

BY: JANA GREENE

Thank you for all prayers and well-wishes. I’d love to say the migraine is fine, but it’s not.

Disappointment is waking up with the pain that you hoped to have “slept off.” It is less intense today, so far (and thank God,) but is still present.

It’s been many moons since I’ve had a migraine reaction this bad. The EDS /POTs are contributing factors, but for some reason, it’s amped up beyond what I can stand.

On top of everything else going on with my body, it’s too much. And I told God so last night.

I told him I’m most unhappy with the earth suit he chose for me to haul my spirit around in this earthly domain.

“What’s the big idea,” I may have said. “I don’t need a super healthy bod. I’m not asking to be a@&)/a% Kardashian body, for shit’s sake. I don’t need a body with which run marathons.

Or even one that has a normal degree of health to regularly do normalsauce things like take long walks. Or hell…even have the ability to open a jar without dislocating my wrist or throwing my thumb out of the socket. I’m not demanding , really. Just give me the energy to go to the grocery store without it sapping me for the rest of the day.

Id ust like to be able to EXIST without a constant barrage of miscellaneous disabilities and constant PAIN.”

A migraine is not a headache. It’s a gauntlet.

Here is a synopsis of my migraine thoughts yesterday:

The pain is so bad, I think it will kill me.
Don’t even CARE if it kills me.
PLEASE let it kill me.
The light, it burns.
Even the lamp light.
Even the NIGHT LIGHT light.
Even the lines of light coming under my light-blocking shades.

The nausea. It’s hellish. The thought of barfing with this headache is going to make a migraine I can not possibly getting worse, WORSE.

If my head were a giant grape, I could squish it and the pain would stop.
What can I use to squish my grape-head?
Can I hire someon to squish it, as a mission of mercy?
Everything I see is double.
Everything I see has an aura.
Lay still and maybe the migraine will stop.
Holy shit, I can’t just lay still here without it searing my brain.
Holy shit, I can’t move around without it searing my brain.
Holy shit WHATS A GIRL GOTTA DO HERE TO GET RID OF A MIGRAINE!?

There are no words in the human language to describe severe migraine suffering.

Oy vey, y’all.
I really need this to end.

Mental Illness · Spiritual

Handing over Anxiety (on Purpose)

Good morning, Dear Reader.

BY: JANA GREENE

How do you define “anxiety,” and how does your anxiety define you?

Anxiety would have me believe that life is just a series of events to kill time while I wait for certain tragedy to strike. As morose as that sounds, if I’m honest, it’s how it FEELS. It robs today of its joy and tomorrow it’s potential.

I would do well to remember that feelings are not facts. Waiting for the “other shoe to drop” is not a strategy for a happy life.

It feels like it will protect your heart to believe the worst, because anything less than horrible will be a nice surprise.

The truth is closer to this: “Life is full of nice surprises, but we will never notice them by expecting the worst.”

Feeding the doom is an old skill I honed in childhood trauma that no longer serves me.
It hasn’t served me in years.

It’s a work in progress. I hand my anxiety off to God every day, and say, “Here, take this please. It’s heavy and awkward to carry and outdated.”

I do not wish to take it to recycling anymore, which is what it’s like to expect anxiety to be repurposed.

No. Every day, I give it up and hope God takes it to the dump. He always does, but I always seem to have a fresh supply the next day.

He is unbothered by it. It’s not heavy for him, awkward in size and shape.

Today, I hand in my anxiety yet again, so that my hands are free for joy and potential. And my heart is free to reject a diagnosis of doom.

God bless us, every one.

Spiritual

The Scandalous, Offensive Love of God

Enjoy this video snippet from our journey back to North Carolina. Oh how he loves us!

By: JANA GREENE

This morning, I woke up early in the great state of Georgia.

Two of my dearest friends in the world accompanied me to a conference that addressed a faith reconstructed. It was incredible. The teachings were what so many evangelicals (and I was one for most of my life,) would consider utterly scandalous.

Y’all, LOVE that rich, pure, and bounteous SHOULD be scandalous. The most passionate love stories always are.

I didn’t move for a while when I woke, because I simply couldn’t. (If you don’t already think I’m nutty, you might now. And I’m okay with that)

I was pinned in place but this momentous, ridiculously extravagant sensation of love.

It was so thick in the air, it felt womb-ish, like a swim in calm ocean, flowing and bobbing. Or being swaddled like a baby, feeling nurtured and safe.

I didn’t fight it, like so tend to do. I didn’t negate it with my usual self-loathing talk. I always feel “powerless” against my own thoughts. My insecurities are members of a terrorist organization of sorts. During my (literal) “come to Jesus,” I discovered that I don’t have to negotiate with terrorists. I get to choose.

No, instead of fighting and fretting against the swell of love, I just rested in it. It was overwhelming, glorious, and unlike any experience I’ve had in a half-century of Christian fundamentalism. There was not even a trace of shame involved. I was fresh out of bothers for a spell.

At some point, I “feel” God say something to the effect of: “Please don’t talk and think mean thoughts about my little girl. I love her so much.” Wait WHAT!?

“You heard,” says gentle but firm Holy Spirit, her voice strong and convincing.

That little girl is me.

This weekend was like a speed-dating session with my true identity. Lots of uncomfortable moments. Lots of connecting. Lots of nerves.
The result is this radical, rich, ridiculous grace for others.

I MUST share what I experienced in the wee hours of the morning with you. I have to. Because it’s LIFE.

Love is life.

Sometimes the supernatural doesn’t come like a lightning strike, dramatic and jarring. It’s not always signs and wonders that the church proper chases for a dopamine hit and considers evidence of a Being of pure Love.

No, sometimes it’s a soul hug first thing in the morning. Supernatural revelation can be realizing you aren’t a cosmic mistake; that you have belonged to Source since before the formation of the Universe. That He belongs to US. I know it sounds strange. But I’m okay with that too.

I welcome the chance to tell you how incredibly loved you are this day.

I don’t want to convert you.

I have no ulterior motives.

I don’t want to change you.

I have no agenda.

I don’t want to push religiousity. Matter of fact, religion is the whole problem. It has almost nothing to do with the actual Trinity, which invites us to a beautiful dance that includes us all.

And as a result of this Great Forgetting , the church can be stingy with the very thing it’s attempting to sell: Love. Purpose. Being.

This weekend, I feel like I had a heart transplant, and I couldn’t be happier.

My prayer today is that you wrap your arms around yourself and hug. Don’t rush it. Really hug yourself tight. Consider it a hug from me.

And so much better – it will be a hug from Papa God. He is wild about you.

May you come to the overwhelming realization of who you really are, and that the opposite of Love is fear. I learned that I don’t have to rent Fear a room in my head. Evict that sucker.

May your awareness of the supernatural be increased so that you can recognize when God “winks” at you.

May you come to know and (this is the hard part) ACCEPT the TRUTH about your inherent value, which is priceless.

I love you, Dear Reader.

Selah.

Spirituality

Blooming Where We’re Planted (in spite of the heat)

BY: JANA GREENE

I bought three little flowering plants for the steps of our front porch several months ago. I cannot tell you the name of the flowers – I’m just winging it with the plant thing. I love that plants are a big deal again, harkening back to the ’70s, when having flora and fauna (and keeping it alive,) was popular.

“You may want to throw those out,” suggested my husband one day, who – upon seeing the three little withering plants – suggested logic. And it was logical. All three looked brown and barren. He is excellent at logic, whereas I consider it largely a nuisance.

“I don’t know,” said I. “I feel like maybe they have some life left in them.”

So I moved the little plants up onto the front porch, where they sat disintegrating for weeks before my eyes. Every day, when I walk out to the mailbox, there they are – sad little things trying to beat the odds. I typically say hello to them, and I always feel silly when I do.

“Wassup?” I ask them.

“Well, we are dying here, soooo…..” I imagine they’d say. Or, “Oy vey! This heat!”

So I got them out of the direct sun, because it’s too intense. Life itself has been ridiculously intense over the past couple of years. The summer heat makes life unfit for man, beast, and – apparently – plants. There they sit on the porch, looking like a lost cause. (Even when I water them, which happens when I remember they exist.)

Bless their hearts.

Today I went out to the mailbox and saw this poignant little sign not to give up. One lone, pink flower found its way to life again somehow. Just the one little plant, scrappy and determined.

I know it’s crazy to have your day made by a flower, but it made me a little giddy to see new life. I could use some new life. One little bud gave me hope today. It spurred what – in my evangelical days – I would call a “God wink.” God LOVES winking at us, sending little reminders that he is willing and able to make life bearable – wonderful, even.

I forget that a lot. Things seem to be getting worse by the day in this crazy world. Everything seems browner, lifeless, and bleak. It’s enough to make you believe that we are goners.

But the truth is:

We get buried, and we rise.

Our spirits get scorched, but not incinerated.

We feel dead, but God

THIS (*gestures wildly*) is quite the season we are having, ya’ll. We all feel brown and crispy. Dry and done-for.

We feel like sad little things trying to beat the odds, because we are.

But we are also magnificently resilient beings, fully capable of blooming again.

Here’s to blossoming against the odds, friends.

Here’s to blooming where we’re planted, scrappy and determined.

I’m wishing all of my readers a Pink Flower Day.

God bless us, every one.

Spiritual

Floating With My Feelings

By: JANA GREENE

It’s technically a float spa, but I call it a “God Pod.” I haven’t been here to float in nearly a year, and my soul needed it today.

I’m naturally very claustrophobic, but I’ve never felt so during a float. Its warm and womb-like in that sucker.

The salt water, the pitch darkness and utter silence. At first my mind was like…

“But what about THIS problem,”
“Or THAT problem?”
“… I need to go home after this and maybe clean the bathrooms.”
I’ve got a medical procedure tomorrow, ANOTHER one…what if the results are bad?”

Then the peace and stillness started to set in, but my brain was not having it.

“I think we are out of half and half….need to pick some up on the way home so My Beloved has some for his coffee tomorrow…”
“Oh, and don’t forget Tide pods…”

On and on it went until I realized that I am having thoughts pummel me – most of the worrisome, or completely mundane, because that’s how I roll. That may always be my default.

So I am allowed to have all the feelings, but I’m also allowed to spike them like a volleyball to send them back over the “net.” I don’t know why I had that vision manifest, but I did.

It’s been a hell of a time the last couple of months. I’ve had plenty of time and reason to get discouraged; even despondent at times. Hope has come to me in fits and starts.

We are allowed to pummel negative thoughts, right back from whence they came. I don’t have to catch them and carry them around. They aren’t trophies…there is no award for whoever has the most “balls.” Pardon the analogy.

Takeaway?

I spiked many volleys (is that the right term? I don’t know sports…) and the more I shifted my focus on the spiritual, the fewer came at me over the net at all.

I need to figure out how to reject negative thoughts when NOT floating like I’m in outer space. That’s the tricky thing.

Just a little epiphany from the God Pod. ❤️

humor · Spiritual

Bless my Gluten-Free Heart (and keepith it away from cookies)

Deadly, y’all. Like, SINFUL.

BY: JANA GREENE

Forgive me, Fathter, I have sinned.
It has been about 23 minutes since my last food confession.

I heard that Oreos make gluten free cookies, and the next thing I know, I’m covered in cookie dust and “double stuff,” wondering where it all went wrong.

As penance, I shall layeth here like a giant slug and zap myself with the diabetes monitor until I pass out in a sugar coma, or reach critical mass of guilt and cry about it, whichever comes first (maybe both. I don’t know….I’m not Catholic.)

Lord, give me this day my daily Metformin, and forgive me my gluttony, as I will forgive Nabisco for making damn gluten free Oreos eventually (but probably not until I polish off the box.)

Jesus take the wheel, as I’m too bloated to fit behind the steering column presently.

In conclusion, I will say six “holy cows,” because DAMN milk would have been SO good with these, but all I have is Oat Milk, because, well you know, I’m a health nut and all…

Amen.

Poetry · Spiritual

The Wobbly Phoenix (and other thoughts on depression)

Photo by Andrew Neel on Pexels.com

BY: JANA GREENE

Not feeling brave today, on a day that seems to demand bravery.

It’s demanding a lot of things….

Like being a mature adult,

And keeping the lid on a major freak-out.

Like putting one foot after another,

Which necessitates getting out of bed,

Which itself

is an exhausting prospect.

I don’t feel like playing along anymore,

In this body that is now

More scratch-and-dent

Than wonderous and miraculous,

In a mind that sells the prospect of doom

Like it’s going out of style or something.

In a Spirit that is strong,

But exceedingly tired,

Because every damn thing is exhausting.

And oy vey!

Don’t even get me started

With the state of the world!

Still…

There’s no way out but through,

And there’s no way through

But to start by standing,

Even if I’m wobbly and scared.

“So BE wobbly,” I tell myself.

“It’s okay to be scared.

It’s just not okay to give up.”

So on this day that requires bravery,

I wobble.

I tell the fear to shut the f*ck up,

Because it’s getting noisier than

The actual anxiety,

And that’s why I can’t hear myself think.

That’s why I can’t think myself calm.

It’s not the anxiety

Which is borne of circumstances

And wonky brain chemistry,

And judging the state of things

By what appears to be true.

It’s the fear that feeds it

Like some kind of all all-you-can-eat-buffet

With only food that I hate

Or makes me sick.

My anxiety likes to think ahead,

To really have all it’s bases covered,

But for God’s sake,

I must stop

Worrying about the problems

Queued up after this problem

And remind myself

That zero amount of previous freak-outs

Has fixed a single problem

In the history of ever.

I tell myself,

“Girl, you’ve pulled a

‘Pheonix rising from the ashes’

More than once.

Have a little faith!”

So….

So it has to go.

It’s the fear that has to go.

Life feels itchy and uncomfortable

To let it go,

It’s been my companion

For such a long time,

Like a really shitty friend

Who I thought

Was saving you from hurting,

But really,

It’s just hurting me.

Staying afraid

More itchy and uncomfortable

Than existing in fear.

So I’m letting it go,

Just for today,

Because it’s all I can bite off

For now.

One single footfall,

And then the other.

Repeat process

Until steadiness readies,

And I’m able to steady

Myself.

And that will have to do

As bravery

For now.

humor

Follow Your Mid-Life Dreams! (…to the nearest bathroom)

I wish to sleep the sleep of this random “free photo gallery” person. Alas, tis not to be.

BY: JANA GREENE

My dream programming tonight: A playlist…

Dream 1: In a stadium of some kind. Decide in my dream that this is odd for someone who hates sports. Reckon that it must (obviously) be The Pigeon Olympics. Hey, Look! The clouds are raining birdseed! I wonder where the toilets are in this joint? *Spends remainder of weird dream ambling around The Clockwork Orange Stadium looking for a bathroom. Finds a street parade, box of Lucky Charms, and a single boot. No potty, though. *Queue anxiety attack.*

Dream 2: I am at college, which is weird because I never went to college. Lose the combination to my locker, which is weird because do you even have lockers in college (!?) Continue nightmare by individually try to open all 100 lockers on the hallway wall with increasingly full bladder. See high school crush, realize I’m wearing pantaloons and nothing else. Now I can’t find the bathroom. Every door I knock on is a classroom full of farm animals. Bless them, I’m distracting them from the studies, and doesn’t every donkey in America deserve a quality education? End up ducking into in a closet out of desperation that is housing a tractor, but still can not empty bladder. Too worried about rusting important farm equipment.

Dream 3: I’m at Disney World in Epcot partaking in French Fries of the World, which is kind of like when Epcot hosts that event where you walk around the “countries” sampling international wines, except not at all like that. I am carrying around two things: A glittery plastic packet of ketsup, and a roll of toilet paper, in case the unimaginable happens and a bathroom at Disney is out of toilet paper. Every sample location features a majestic, roaring waterfall. Holy cow, I need to pee. Ask costumed, licensed Disney Character where the bathroom is. They perform a weird skit pantomiming pulling down their invisible pants and squatting over a “toilet,” which is really just a manhole, so yeah, thanks a lot, Donald and Daisy. Sheesh. Everyone knows y’all don’t even WEAR pants. Experience inter-dream panic attack because surely I’m going to pee my pants in the Happiest Place on Earth, and I bet they don’t let people with wet pants ride to the top of the giant golf ball.

Okay, I’m REALLY awake now with extremely full bladder. Hobble to the real, actual bathroom wondering if this TOO is yet another dream and I’m about to pee in a potted plant or something. Peeing in actuality is a huge relief, but can I be honest? Pretty anti-climactic after all my adventures in dreaming.

Welcome to mid-life: You ALWAYS have to pee. Sleeping is impossible. Every single dream feels like the result of eating a whole bag of nacho Doritos before bed; and every dream features the quest for a bathroom, and ends with an an anxiety attack. It’s a real swell time.

*Sigh.

Spiritual

How to Cook Up a Batch Religious Deconstruction (recipe for re-construction included)

Just like Grandma Used to Make (I’m kidding)

BY: JANA GREENE

Recipe for Spiritual Reconstruction:

Take one lifetime of Old Time Religion. Stir in two cups of Fear-Based Theology. Sprinkle in 2 tbsp of unintentional judginess, three tbsp of Obviously I’m Right, work through dough. Add additional The Bible CLEARLY Says! to taste.

While religious “dough” is trying to rise, but just kind of petering out, prepare in a shofar – I mean BOWL:

Two cups each of Chronic Pain and Debilitating Illness powder that has been sifted through a “name it and claim it” sieve for 40 years, but it’s still lumpy.

Add 4 tbsp frustration, and a dash of Must Not Be Worthy of Healing. Stir in a packet of What Will My Fundamentalist Friends Think. Cry about this step for approximately three more years.

Check ingredients in first bowl to make sure dough is indeed rising. But nope. It’s just sitting there in a big glop.

In yet another bowl, add one adult child who has come out as bisexual, which was NOT in the original recipe, so sayeth the Expectations Set Forth by the Church. Add a smidge of What Will My Fundamentalist Friends Think (if you have any left, which is doubtful. We go through it like gangbusters around here!)

Decide to add many dollups of Mother Love anyway (heck, dump in however much you have,) and set the kitchen timer to two more years on the “acceptance” setting. This is a wet ingredient, so thinning it out will just make it easier to spread. Use liberally.

Open up the pantry and see what else you have that might somehow make it more palatable.

Aww, shucks. All you have is a Costco-sized box a bag of Everything Else Life Can Throw At You. That stuff is SPICY. Always check the label…let’s see…it contains Mental Health Challenges, Losing Mobility, Family Estrangements, Crippling Anxiety, Bouts of Financial Struggle, Alcoholism, Codependency, Childhood Trauma, and 1000 grams of pure Shame Concentrate.

Going back to the bowl, taste the batter. See that it is bad. Mix all ingredients. See that it is WORSE.

While waiting for the timer, it’s important to assume that the Master Chef is angry and frustrated with you. Kind of like an astral Gordon Ramsey or something.

Assure yourself the whole Universe is against you, as is everyone you know and love who is following directions from a 2,000 year old book of recipes that several hundred fallible human people contributed to. Kind of like Gramma’s recipe box that had a hundred food-stained index recipe cards from her friends shoved into between the pages. Make sure to take everything out of context for best results.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees and when timer sounds, decide on how much savory Self-Doubt to use. Seasonings come in “I’m a Worthless Sinner,” and “Searing Disappointment” flavors.

Ask yourself WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Am I just a shitty cook, or so I just have so few ingredients to work with, I’m having a hard time accepting the result?

And what if I’ve been forgetting the Main Ingredient all along?

Next (scary) step:

Decide you’re tired of fear-based faith, dust off your hands, open your heart, ask the Universe to help you see what is Truth, battle-weary, heavy-hearted, and feeling raw inside like dough that won’t rise.

Decide to put all judgement and Christian-ese down the garbage disposal. The Expectations of Other People went bad a long time ago and is really stinking up the place.

Decide to fold Unconditional Love into every single recipe. Never run out! Keep it on the top of every list so you always have enough.

Follow the example set by Jesus always…He is always cooking up something GOOD.

Next, march all three containers used previously out your back door. Gently set down all three, and leave them outside to think about what they’ve done.

Now – this is important – turn off the oven. Nobody is burning on my new watch!

You are not alone, Chef Self.

So join a “cooking” club – one that is comprised of other Seekers with open hearts who want to get at the meat of the Truth, and offer you endless sugar.

Flip the script. Read the instructions anew.

Take one bowl – the most chipped and beat up one you got, and butter it with kindness.

Then invite all your friends over to help you create a masterpiece.

All you will need is:

8 cups HOPE – brimming.
Five tbsp of self-forgiveness.
A heaping scoop of Studying what the Cookbook Really Calls For – reading between the lines.
A tbsp of of Learning to Love Yourself Too will hold it all together when you want to throw in the towel.

And last, but MOST importantly, add All the Jesus You Have, all day every day. All of it. Tip it over and smack the bottom of the box for every molecule of Jesus it’s got. Really pile it in on. Study his ways in the context given, and leave room for Holy Spirit in every dish.

Oh, and tell your friends that All the Jesus is just another measurement of LOVE. Get to know HIS way around the kitchen together.

These few ingredients are all you need, Junior Chef, to mix up a reconstruction of faith for the ages. And keep in mind:

If you feel like you have to keep Fear on hand “just in case,” know that God is not the store where you purchased Fear. That stuff is very in-organic.

If you’re grieving the losses of this hard life, pull up a chair and come sit by me. There is always plenty of room at Christ’s table. And mine. *Pulls out chair and pats the seat in a welcoming invitation.*

If you’re ambling around aimlesssly, your chef hat askew, join me. I’ll be celebrating that I finally understand, “It is for freedom you were set free.”

And if you’re deconstructing your faith, and If you’re being called “deceived,” “fallen” – or (and I’m okay with this one) – “ex-evangelical,” remind yourself that the Word of God is an actual person. As Master Chef, he wants to see you succeed.

And so do I. ❤️

Bon appetit!

Mental Health · Poetry · Spiritual

Eggshells and Elephants

BY: JANA GREENE

I walked on eggshells the other day,

Someone put them there,

People who tend to take offense

Leave them everywhere.

I didn’t want to break their shells,

Though they were in my way,

Gentle footfalls were my intent,

But CRUNCH they went, anyway!

It’s tricky and risky, emotional biz,

To feel like you can’t say a word,

Because someone, somewhere will

Read and misconstrue

Everything they heard.

So keep dropping eggshells,

If you absolutely must,

Let them fall where they may,

If you are still afraid to trust,

But please don’t leave them on the ground,

There’s bigger stomping feet to pound.

The Elephant in the Living Room?

Yeah, he’s still around!

We can’t fix things we won’t talk about,

We can’t deal with what we deny exists,

So sweep those eggshells up off the carpet,

Invite that elephant to sit,

Lets talk about the hard stuff,

And make some headway, Sis.

Spiritual

Single Mamas? You’re Going to be Okay. ❤️

BY: JANA GREENE

Memories

It was 2005. The girls were barely 9 and 12. I had to leave my ex husband. We left nearly everything; I took my kids and the clothes we had on our backs, and just enough belongings – a very small storage unit – to start a new life.

My baby

I left heirlooms and photo albums, boxes of childhood stuff, meaningful – all of it. I went from stay at home mom to working four jobs at once just to feed and house my girls. I had no help of any kind, financially or emotionally.

Hula girl

I worked one of the jobs so that Lexi could take Hula lessons and Ash could pursue her interests. I fed them a lot of chicken nuggets, ramen noodles, and instant mashed potatoes, and happy meals. I myself lived on cigarettes and Diet Coke, and lost 80 pounds in a short amount of time.

I was so frazzled and scared, and had only four years sober at the time. It is by the grace of God I didn’t pick up a drink; I know this because I am not that strong – I had supernatural help.

Purple hair, don’t care


The pics from this time period came up in my memories and punched me in the gut, but almost in a good way. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I have memories of crying myself to sleep, but I also have the best memories of the times represented by these pictures.

Ohana


It was so hard. But those precious girls!
This is one reason my daughters and I are so close. We’ve been through some sh*t together. I wasn’t sure we’d survive it. But we did.

Firstborn


I’m writing this because I have so many friends going through single motherhood.

Mamas, you are doing an awesome %#@&$ job. You’re slaying it.

Even though you worry about your babies constantly.

Even though you feel like you’re missing the mark.

I just want to assure you that you’ll be okay.

You’re a strong-ass woman. You’re slaying it.

And your kids will be so proud of you one day.

God bless us, every one.

Addiction · Anxiety · Chronic Ilness · Dieting · Food · Food addiction · Grace · Jana Greene · Mental Health · Mental Illness · substance abuse · The Beggar's Bakery · Weariness · weight management

An Old Friend and Some Candy (a Cautionary Tale.)

BY: JANA GREENE

I ate a whole bag of candy last night.

It tasted like loving myself. At the time, at least.

This might not be a big deal, but you see, my diabetes is severe and my kidneys are slowly failing.

Why did I do it? That’s a good question.

I ate the first one because my sugar was tanked after neglecting to fuel my body consistently the right way throughout the day.

They were sour coated gummy worms, and I guess that’s why I ate the next one.

And another.

And then I had a visit from an old friend called “WTF” (those are it’s initials…I don’t like to use it’s whole name in polite company.)

A brilliant conversationalist, WTF has a lot to say.

WTF says what difference does it make?

WTF makes sense. I’m making all these lifestyle changes to little avail. Even when I eat perfectly, my kidneys are still tanking.

This things gonna get you anyway, it says.

So WTF. Eat the rest of the bag. Go out in a blaze of Trolli limited-time-novelty-candy glory.

WTF reminds me that I FELL BETTER in my soul with sugar on my tongue. So I keep putting more candy on my tongue, because cause and affect are a real thing.

As it melts in my mouth salaciously, I love myself a little. And hate myself a little, too.

So in other words… it hits me RIGHT in the childhood.

WTF is very persuasive. The more I guiltily stuff worms in my face, the more I feel I deserve to eat worms. “You lazy jerk,” WTF whispers. “See? You can’t control yourself. Guess you may as well eat the whole bag.”

But ironically, as long as I am eating the candy, I can hush the scolding for the time being. It’s a bit of an “I’ll show you” display of mid-grade rebellion. With every candy, I am sticking to The Man (except if I’m honest with myself, at this stage, The Man is really only me)

I am in a frenzy of sour-coated, sweet and tangy bliss. My inner child has a full belly and a blue tongue.

And I crumple the empty bag and stick it in the trash, under some other trash. Which is what I feel like now…trash.

This is hard.

And it’s extra hard because WTF and I go way back. We have a history.

I remember it best from my drinking days. And that’s why we broke up on January 3, 2001. I wasn’t expecting the shady bastard to show up on my doorstep again.

WTF. It likes to tell me things like “Everybody drinks wine.”

WTF. “You drank last night and it made you feel while and complete. Drink again.”

WTF. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You’ll never get it right.”

WTF is kind of a live-in-the-moment guy, which is what makes it dangerous. Impulsive, it encourages me to be impulsive – something I have a penchant for anyway.

WTF says, “If it makes your soul feel satiated, why not do it? Don’t think of tomorrow, or next week, or even when the sugar crash will start.”

WTF says that now is the time. Now is always the time.

Even though last night’s bender was just in candy, it was still a Bender. It’s poison to my body in my condition, just as alcohol became poison to me, mind, body, and soul.

I am not a healthy girl. I can not afford to take poison.

So I am writing this at 4 o’clock in the morning, feeling sick and befuddled, knowing I’m going to feel worse tomorrow.

And I’ll have the added weight of knowing I chose – in however small a way – self sabotage over self-care.

WTF comes under the guise of a nanny of sorts. It encourages me to take care of my inner child by giving her what she THINKS she wants…not what she needs.

All I can do is tell WTF to eff off, take Little Me under my own wings, and care for her the right way.

And write about it. Because it’s the only way I know to purge these feelings. And maybe make someone else feel less alone.

I will choose self care for the rest of today. Join me?

Blessed be.