About three weeks ago, I put up a post about my great-grandfather's death and the voices that get in the way of doing things that are important to me (here it is, in case you haven't read it), and I received a comment on Facebook about it, which contained a couple really interesting questions. Le comment:
"I thought most or all religious people were OK with death and understood it as a way in to heaven?? I myself am scared of death. And you commented about Adam and Eve messing it all up but what about God sacrificing his own son on the cross causing death??" - Carly
Before I get into my answer, I wanted to write what I understand is being asked. Carl Rogers bases his therapy off of mirroring back to his patient what he understands them to be saying, which requires that he listen really well, and also then shows that he's listening really well. Also, if I end up making a mistake in my interpretation, then it'll be much easier for everyone to point it out, and for me to correct my mistake.
Besides that, my mother tells me that this is good idea when discussing things, and what mom says, goes. :)
Here's what I understand of the logic behind these questions (forgive the simplicity, I'll do the same thing kind of thing with my answer later):
April 25, 2012
April 01, 2012
Announcing: Apreggios for Writers
Sometime around last Christmas I discovered a really fantastic blog by this badass named Justine Musk. Perhaps you've heard of her.
I absolutely loved what she had to say in her posts and more or less devoured everything I could in three hours (and I read fast, so that was about 90% of her posts). While in the midst of this veritable feast for my mind and imagination, I came across one of her posts on deliberate practise, which linked to a post on Study Hacks on the same subject, and I was like: "Hey! This deliberate practise thing sounds exactly like what I've been needing to give me a boost in my writing skills" -not that I think that I'm a terrible writer or anything, I just love it when I find a practical way to get even better at something that I adore doing.
I got to thinking about this idea, and it really excited me. So, I started a little blog where I'd introduce and exercise, and then I'd do it on a regular basis until I've learned what I can from that exercise for that time, at which point I'd start a new exercise. Since it was really just for me, I didn't tell anyone on the internet about it, and only told some of my friends and family, people who might be interested in writing-related activities.
I absolutely loved what she had to say in her posts and more or less devoured everything I could in three hours (and I read fast, so that was about 90% of her posts). While in the midst of this veritable feast for my mind and imagination, I came across one of her posts on deliberate practise, which linked to a post on Study Hacks on the same subject, and I was like: "Hey! This deliberate practise thing sounds exactly like what I've been needing to give me a boost in my writing skills" -not that I think that I'm a terrible writer or anything, I just love it when I find a practical way to get even better at something that I adore doing.
I got to thinking about this idea, and it really excited me. So, I started a little blog where I'd introduce and exercise, and then I'd do it on a regular basis until I've learned what I can from that exercise for that time, at which point I'd start a new exercise. Since it was really just for me, I didn't tell anyone on the internet about it, and only told some of my friends and family, people who might be interested in writing-related activities.
March 20, 2012
The Worst Part of Death
I remember the day my great-grandfather died. It’s not like it was unexpected, after all, the man was 101, but it was because he was 101 that I had thought he wasn’t going to die. He was the oldest person I knew, and I thought that he would beat the Guinness world record and die at about 130. Sometime nice and far away. It made sense; when he turned 100, my mom sent him a birthday card and he wrote her back a letter. He called his walker his Corvette, and the only reason he didn’t have his drivers license was because they had made him give it up when he was in his nineties (“I’ve had it for this long; I’m going to keep it!”).
On his last day, my grandparents -my mom’s parents- went to visit him around 5 in the evening. He was very weak and tired, but his mind was as sharp as ever, and they all enjoyed themselves. After they left, the sun was setting, and he asked the nurse to help him sit in a chair facing the window so that he could watch it. When she came back a few minutes later, he was gone.
When I went to the viewing, I couldn’t go pay my respects. I couldn’t bear to see his body, life gone out of it and sagging with the victorious pull of gravity and time. It would have made me vomit, or want to. My parents gave me odd looks when I said I wouldn’t go up, but they didn’t understand and I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want to weep, there in full view and hearing of all these relatives who I didn’t know and who weren’t making much noise themselves.
On his hundredth birthday, all his descendants except for a handful came to celebrate with him. We filled a hall, hundreds of us wanting to wish our father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather a happy birthday. Someone had made a video recounting his life, and we watched it and my respect for him grew and grew and grew. He grew up in modern-day Ukraine and, when the communists took over, he was married and his wife was pregnant with their first child. One Sunday, not long after the Bolshevik revolution, he felt very strongly that he had to leave the country that day. He told his family, but they told him that he shouldn’t. It was the Lord’s day; he should rest. He would be able to leave the next day. If he had listened to them, I wouldn’t have been born because the next day the borders closed, no-one in or out, and only he and his pregnant wife, of all his and her family, managed to escape. My great-grandfather was a legend, and legends don’t die. But he did.
On his last day, my grandparents -my mom’s parents- went to visit him around 5 in the evening. He was very weak and tired, but his mind was as sharp as ever, and they all enjoyed themselves. After they left, the sun was setting, and he asked the nurse to help him sit in a chair facing the window so that he could watch it. When she came back a few minutes later, he was gone.
When I went to the viewing, I couldn’t go pay my respects. I couldn’t bear to see his body, life gone out of it and sagging with the victorious pull of gravity and time. It would have made me vomit, or want to. My parents gave me odd looks when I said I wouldn’t go up, but they didn’t understand and I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want to weep, there in full view and hearing of all these relatives who I didn’t know and who weren’t making much noise themselves.
On his hundredth birthday, all his descendants except for a handful came to celebrate with him. We filled a hall, hundreds of us wanting to wish our father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather a happy birthday. Someone had made a video recounting his life, and we watched it and my respect for him grew and grew and grew. He grew up in modern-day Ukraine and, when the communists took over, he was married and his wife was pregnant with their first child. One Sunday, not long after the Bolshevik revolution, he felt very strongly that he had to leave the country that day. He told his family, but they told him that he shouldn’t. It was the Lord’s day; he should rest. He would be able to leave the next day. If he had listened to them, I wouldn’t have been born because the next day the borders closed, no-one in or out, and only he and his pregnant wife, of all his and her family, managed to escape. My great-grandfather was a legend, and legends don’t die. But he did.
March 02, 2012
And Now For Something Completely Different
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I'm considering introducing myself to new people as
"Thea, fan of Firefly" for this very reason.
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I'm ridiculously interested in a lot of things that make about as much sense together as putting wings on a rock and throwing it off a cliff so that it can fly, except my interests don't generally result in broken windows. With that in mind, I was thinking the other day about everything I've written on here and I decided I would write about something really random that I happen to really enjoy. It comes with just about one of the geekiest confessions I'll ever make (unless someone can find a really fun excuse to use trigonometry, because I have this odd fascination with calculating things that have to do with triangles), and those of you who have not yet met me in real life have never yet heard me talking about this. Wanna try and guess what it is?
Go on.
I've got time.
...
...
...
Okay, I'll tell you. :)
February 12, 2012
In Which Thea Rips up a Quiz for the Greater Good
Hello, everyone! Here are the draw results, with a dash of randomness thrown in. :)
Lewinna, if you're seeing this before you get on Twitter, I've DM'd you the pertinent information about your new ebook. If you're seeing this after you've gotten on Twitter, well... this is awkward.
Lewinna, if you're seeing this before you get on Twitter, I've DM'd you the pertinent information about your new ebook. If you're seeing this after you've gotten on Twitter, well... this is awkward.
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