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BethAMend
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Name: Bethany
Birthday: 8/23/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: Finding new and more interesting acting choices; Why the Church settles for shallow theology; My husband, Eric K. Mendenhall; Why the world and the Church (including myself) don't truly believe the Gospel; Dad, Mom, Joel, Abigail, James (Crick), and Jonny (Bunky); The minds of girls and women and why we believe the lies of society; The Brilliant Bard; What the Church should really look like; Buhddies; Chocolate, fudge, brownies, etc.; Whether or not art can profoundly impact individuals and or society, and which kinds can and which kinds can't; Dogs (hint: one of these "interests" is a joke, and it's this one); Laughing; Discovering why I'm in Atlanta, GA right now; Finding new friends; Learning to Love...
Expertise: Licking stamps and putting them on envelopes.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/20/2005
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| Read the two posts below and THEN go to
www.bethanyhealth.blogspot.com
and enter the poll with your opinions on them!
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Politics and I have a love-hate relationship.
I love picking
my guy/gal and rooting for him/her much like I did the U.S. women's
gymnastics team at the Olympics. Except somewhere, deep down, I'd like
to believe my life will be affected by the winner of this one.
I hate that maybe it won't be. Or if it is, we'll just fight over who to blame it on.
I
love yelling the logical fallacies and screaming against the ridiculous
rhetoric until my throat is sore and the T.V. is covered in my saliva.
I hate the conventions. The lies. The painted faces. The lack of free speech.
I
love the faces of politician's children who hate it almost as much as I
do and I can hope that maybe the next generation won't be so fake.
I hate that this will never be.
I
love that I have friends (mostly from a church I have attended at some
point or another) who are staunch, hard-core, 'til they die Republicans
and friends (mostly from a theatre I have worked with at some point or
another) who are staunch, hard-core, 'til they die Democrats.
I hate that they would never really have a good conversation with each other.
I
love that they say the exact same things about each other, in the exact
same spiteful tones, and I just laugh and laugh and laugh and wish they
could hear their counterpart.
I hate that they wouldn't recognize themselves in the mirror lying at the political line.
I
love being a mostly-libertarian in that world. Because Republicans just
nod about that. They don't really know what it means and don't care
unless they hear we don't think the federal government should be in
charge of abortion and gay marriage. And democrats feel it is their
post-modern duty to be cool with whatever works for somebody else. As
long as that is not Republicanism.
I hate that we all think we
are right but somebody has to be wrong because we can't all be right
and we can't even try everybody's way because we don't have time so
somebody has to give in or loose or die and we all have to try the
ideas of whoever won the most power by telling the prettiest lies and
it will still never work because we live in a world filled with pain
and sadness and sorrow and run on sentences and mostly
self-centeredness but at least...
I love that politics make me look forward to heaven.
Because
then, it will be done. Where there is no Republican, Democrat,
Libertarian, Green Party, Independent, Communist, Socialist, etc. And
we'll finally see Right.
I love that Right won't look like anything I've ever, ever, ever seen before. | | |
| This morning I awoke to the fingers of autumn pulling back the veil of
a humid Georgia summer. It was a thick veil. One you'd see on a bride
full of shame or sadness who wished to remain hidden. But the groom,
beautiful Fall, forgives her oppressive stinginess and blaring
judgments and begs to slowly open the veil a bit more. She gives in.
And Fall, in all his soft loveliness, cools the harsh rigidness of
Summer's days and not only forgives but forgets. | | |
| Some of you know I took a trip recently to Prince Edward Island with my bosom friend Laura Kate. My expectations of the trip were extremely high but I could not have even imagined a more lovely, gorgeous, imaginative, home-away-from-home, heart-breakingly-delicious, so wonderful it awakes an unquenchable thirst, and restful trip than the one we experienced. We saw the L.M. Montgomery sights, the "Anne" sights (though not the overly touristy ones), and lots of gorgeous scenery with red cliffs pushing their way into clear blue oceans and grass covered hills bathed in tall, swaying patches of Queen Anne's Lace and Golden Rod. I hope to write more of my experiences, though I could never cover it all.
Laura Kate gave me a copy of The Story Girl for my birthday which is a lesser known L.M. Montgomery tale written not long after the publication of the first Anne book. The author claims it was her favorite. Today, I read this paragraph and have probably read it about five times since:
There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again and blessed are they among mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.
~Lucy Maud Montgomery - The Story Girl
I think, in Prince Edward Island, the door to fairyland is much easier to find. Especially for those of us who have grown old and our eyesight has dimmed considerably. But there is a door here in the city, behind the smog, under the sirens, beneath the asphalt, below the poverty line, and far far away from anything resembling glamor, it is there. It's knob needs a good polishing and cobwebs have overtaken the frame. One might almost be afraid to open it. But if you can find it, bring us the tidings and the tales.
And we will thank you.
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| Every morning I face my fear. It looms above me, literally and figuratively, as I walk to work. It is a thing called a crane. It
makes me scared because of a thing called “crane death” which happens
when somebody doesn’t put the crane on quite right and the crane comes
crashing hundreds of feet down to the sidewalk and anybody walking on
it. If somebody is walking on that sidewalk, that is how “crane death” occurs. I
am walking and I am usually reading a book because that’s called
killing three birds, no make that four birds, with one stone (exercise,
getting to work, reading, and showing the Iraqis or Saudi Arabians or Cheney's that I don’t need their
oil) which also today is called multi-tasking because dead birds are
politically incorrect. When I get to the cranes, my pace picks up a little. I try to keep reading but the words go blurry. I look up because maybe if I see the crane begin to fall, I can run and avoid “crane death”. I look down because maybe if I don’t know “crane death” is about to happen, I’ll never know and just die instantly in peace. At all times I picture my body three feet in front of me. Though I am standing it has been squished down to about two inches. Flesh,
bones and intestines squeeze out and wrap around the gigantic pieces of
metal which have just acted as my soul’s train to heaven. That’s what “crane death” looks like in my mind. I am probably more afraid of drowning than I am of “crane death” but I don’t have many opportunities to drown. I don’t swim to work, I walk. “Crane death”, seems much more imminent. I am also afraid of roaches. Though lately, I have become more angry at them than afraid of them. When I see one in my apartment, I scream like a burglar has just entered. If
my husband is home, I run to wherever he is and keep screaming and
shivering until he has found the roach, killed it, flushed it, and
given me a nasty look for hurting his ears. If he is not home, I turn into a raging banshee. I grab the can of Raid and a shoe and both drown and beat it to death. While I flush it down the toilet I yell, “this is where I put my own human waste! This is your end! You don’t mess with me. You come into my house, this is how you leave!” This death is probably much worse than “crane death”. To be drowned, poisoned, squished and flushed is not a nice way to go. I do not normally affirm the killing of bugs if they are outside. If bugs could read, this would be my message for them: Dear Bugs,
Outside is your home, inside is my home. If I am outside in your home, I will not bother you. If you are inside in my home, I will kill you. I will poison, drown and beat you to death. You have ALL of outside. That’s really a lot when you think about it, if you can think. I come to your home sometimes because it’s the only way I have to get places. But when you have so much home, it doesn’t seem like too much to ask. Me? I have a little two bedroom apartment. Please do not come in. You’re not welcome and you might die.
Love, Bethany So my fears of late have been “crane death” and roaches, because I face both of them nearly every day. They are both things that I really cannot control. They are both things I cannot reason with. They are merely things of which I have irrational fear. Last week when I was walking to work, I realized I could take a different route. There are lots of ways to the Woodruff Arts Center from 4th St. and I could use a different one. But then I didn’t want to, because this way every day I face my fear. I say, “crush me if you want to. I can’t poison you, drown you, or beat you.” So, I’ll just look my fear in the anthropomorphic eye that I’ve given it (it’s a green eye) and keep walking right under. What are you afraid of? | | |
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