Truth, Love, Biology, Stones

 “I wasn’t born in a barn, but I got there as fast as I could.” A kindred spirit wrote that. Actually, barns aren’t my forte. I like the wild open green fields where the animals frolic, and the air smells fresh.

But I loved my run-in barn, 24 x 12 feet, open on one side where my two horses could be dry and out of the rain. And I kept the rubber-matted floor clean. They used one side for their hay, and the other side for a bathroom. It worked perfectly. I cleaned it every morning.

My love of horses must have begun when I was six years old, before I ever touched one. My father took me to the carnival when he came home from the war. I lusted after one of their prizes: a small horse statue. He bribed the hawker to sell it to him—I’m sure that was meant to be a surprise when he won it, but I knew the truth, and it forever endeared him to me. He disappeared from my life after that…for 38 years.

When I was nine years old, my mom and step-dad moved from a small town in Oregon to a house on one acre of land outside the city next door to a farm with a number of acres, two horses, a cow, chickens, and rabbits. There, one of their two daughters, a high school student, would pull me up behind her on their big horse, King, and we would take off roaming the countryside.

The other daughter rode their old mare, King’s mother. Sometimes we would go to the store to buy Grape Nehi, or to the creek to swim, or to an old racetrack grown up in weeds but still fun to encircle. During hay season, in the cool of the evenings, we tried to get the horses to jump the small piles of hay the boys raked up from windrows into small stacks. Only the horses plowed through instead of jumping them, and we had to rake the hay into a pile again.

Why Lois spent time with a nine-year-old is beyond me, but I will be forever grateful. She was my mentor, and she sent me on a journey of wishing, dreaming, and praying for a horse of my own.  

Three years later, we moved away from Lois and King, but I got Boots. My horse. A super horse. My step-dad chose well. I totally loved that horse.

And now I am in love again.

With baby goats.

It happened yesterday when I drank my morning coffee sitting in clean, sweet-smelling straw, holding a baby goat. He was quivering, and I held him until he was warm and snuggly. The other goat was a bit standoffish, but by afternoon all of us were sitting in the sunshine, happy as three otters on a creek bank, with the babies nibbling grass and crawling on my lap.

Daughter dear, grandson and I picked up the goats on Sunday afternoon. It’s Tuesday now, and we’re settled in, happy. This morning, I, again, drank my morning coffee sitting in the straw and holding a baby goat. They greeted me with “baas.” I thought they were crying yesterday, but I think they were happy to see a person.

How am I going to get anything done?

These are boy goats, but will not be Billy goats. They are called wethers; that is, a neutered goat. They haven't had surgery, but they have rubber bands—you figure it out—it’s your biology lesson for the day.

And now I am here with you. It’s Tuesday, blog day.

Last Tuesday I was a mess. I had already written the blog the night before. I would clean it and publish it in the morning, I thought. The trouble was, when morning came, I fiddled with it. I didn’t like it. I changed it. I lost it.

Lost it? What the heck? Where did it go? I searched. I thought I could get my history back. I couldn’t.

After hours of trying, I rewrote the blog, but it didn’t have the enthusiasm of the first. I thought I had it together.  I wanted to get my blog out. I hit publish. Then refused to look at it for two days. But when I did, I screamed bloody murder.

What a mess.

I’m embarrassed.  

I cleaned up my mess, and I’m off again. It will not stop me.

And this brings me to the question I began for this post a few days ago: “Why is it that when someone from the opposite end of the political spectrum from me will say I’ve been lied to, when apparently they've been given the truth?”

We used to expect people to tell us the truth. A liar was soon ignored.

Ignoring or shaming tended to weed out liars. Honest Abe, remember him? Nixon probably would have gotten away with his break-in, but he was caught lying. This administration can lie right to our faces, even with fact-finders right behind him, and half the country doesn’t care.

But half the country does care—you know how a lie will travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes. And the people who care are walking the hard road, against constant opposition.

It used to be that we expected reporters to have integrity. Do you know what integrity means? I thought it meant telling the truth, but it actually means speaking within one’s own moral system. Can you believe it? A person with no morals can tell you lies and be within their own integrity.

This shocked the heck out of me.

But this morning, I looked up the word integrity. I found it described basically as I originally thought—to be honest.

Integrity:

• Honesty: A steady refusal to lie, steal, or deceive in any situation. [1, 2]
• Consistency: Acting in the exact same ethical manner whether people are watching or not. [1, 2]
• Wholeness: Deriving from the Latin word integer, meaning a state of being whole, complete, and undivided in character. [1, 2]
• Soundness: Maintaining an unimpaired, solid condition, often applied to moral character or physical structures. [1]

 

Do definitions vary? And if it’s from AI, AI knows only what we tell it.

How can it get smarter without the data in the first place? It’s like history. His Story. Written by a man. Recycled by a man. Run through the biases and the thought processes of a man.

 

What if the data is wrong? Whoops.

 

Yesterday an ad caught me. I was curious –a honey cure for Alzheimer's? Only one dollar a day? It can be found in your kitchen? Numerous celebrities, their voices and faces online, claimed that their fuzzyheadedness disappeared within a week. They could remember words again. I looked closely; has this been AI-generated?

The faces didn’t look exactly right. But wouldn’t the media need permission to use people’s faces and voices to sell something? Would celebrities allow that?

Honey is a hot topic these days. It’s good for you; it’s not good for you. Alzheimers is a hot topic; everyone fears it. The fear of losing our memory—now that’s a good distraction.

It isn’t plaque buildup in the brain that causes Alzheimer's, so said this ad, it was something else. Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?

I watched for at least one half hour—it felt like an eternity. That’s one reason I blog—you can read me in two minutes. And if this has any AI content I will jump up and down and scream.

I hate those long commercials that give their credentials, their life story, their research, their conclusions, and then I find that, of course, they had made a world-shaking discovery, something they would sell to you.

Whoops, I told you my horsey life story.  

This particular ad I’m talking about came from substances found on a tiny island with fresh, unspoiled soil, water, and nutrients not found in the US. They believed two minerals found there could soak up the toxic metals we accumulate over time that cause Alzheimer’s. One was found in their wild honey. The other was in their water.

The people raised on the island rarely got Alzheimer’s.  

A picture on the ad showed someone stirring honey.

I saw no kitchen, and no menu.

But I did see a bottle of capsules available for purchase.

How much did they cost?

You had to wait a while until they disclosed that.  

The special price was reduced to about one dollar a day.

They did not mention that confiscating that rare and precious commodity would use it up. I don’t think there is an endless supply of wild honey on a small island.

I wasn’t born yesterday.

But I don’t want to doubt everything either.

This is like the touchstone, said to bring one’s heart’s desire. Legend said you would recognize it by touch, for it was always warm. A person learned it was on a rocky beach, and so he searched, picking up stones to feel their heat. And so, to eliminate the stones he had checked, one by one he threw them into the ocean.

One day he found the stone; it radiated an uncommon heat. It was the touchstone. His arm, however, had become so used to throwing stones that before he could stop himself, he slung it into the ocean.

Sleepy time.

P.S. The ad I mentioned is considered a fraud.  Bill Gates does not have a cure for Alzheimer’s. How can whoever controls our information get away with this?

The Archer

 You know, sometimes we need a kick in the pants.

Don’t laugh, but the day before yesterday for fun, I decided to draw a Moon Card from the online Moon Card site. I got “The Archer.”

That tickled me, for in high school PE I was good at archery. I wasn’t great at sports—I didn’t like them, really—my forte was riding my horse, and in P.E. I liked the trampoline—I guess with both I felt I was flying.

That high school archery excel was a surprise, and it came with a lesson in human behavior.  A student asked, “Why is she so good at archery?” The teacher responded: “Because she has good posture.” A fluke, I guess. I stand straight. I noticed that if you are poor at sports, you are somewhat outside the group. If you are good, you are envied—but then, maybe that’s teenage stuff. 

I don’t think so.

I think it goes into adulthood.

If you are rich, you immediately go up the Awe ladder, but are envied by many.

Here's what the Archery said:

“She's prepared to face any condition in pursuit of her target, emphasizing resilience and determination. The hillside behind her signifies the long journey she has taken to reach this vantage point, illustrating your own journey to this moment. This card represents your readiness to build the future you want and the motivation to chase your dreams, no matter what challenges arise.”

 

So, put on a leather arm protector, left arm if you’re right-handed, other arm if you’re left-hand dominate. Protect your arm against that whap of a bowstring. That stings. Load your arrow on the bowstring; one finger holds the arrow, the other fingers pull the string.  Pull back until you feel you have reached a strong draw of the bowstring and a bend of the bow. Take aim. Look straight down the arrow. Stand up straight. Release the string.

Twang. Thud.

You hit the straw target, close, but not the bullseye. So, try again.

If you have read any of my other posts, you know that sometimes I shoot wild. Sometimes I rant.  Other times I emphasize the positive. My best shot doesn’t always hit the bullseye.

But today I am revitalized.

Zig Ziglar says: “Some say motivation doesn’t last. Neither does bathing. That’s why we do it daily.”

Yes, I’m motivated to read the book I have owned and loved for more than 30 years.

It had rough treatment. Sorry about that.  It has circled the Pacific Rim with us many times. (for our moves.) It looks ragged, but is much loved, as was the Velveteen Rabbit and thus was made real.  One might think I used that book for target practice; however, if I had used it in place of a bull’s-eye, it would have a hole in its center.

It doesn’t.

Yesterday on Kindle Unlimited, I discovered a book titled The Magic Secret. Narrated and introduced by Mitch Horowitz. Horowitz writes about Clyde Bristol, the author of “The Magic of Believing,” The Science of Setting Your Goal …and then Reaching It.

I knew the pianist Liberace had used something akin to Bristol’s teachings, but I didn't know he praised him wildly for getting his career on track. Liberace, a flaming gay man at a time when that was wildly unpopular, had dreams of playing at the Hollywood Bowl, so to give himself the feeling of doing it, the courage to play his piano there, he found a night when there were no performances, and played his piano—to an audience of one, himself.

He wanted to put himself in that place where he was aiming for his dream, to feel it, to embrace it, to make himself believe his heart’s desire was possible. You know how athletes look at the result, the ball in the pocket, in the hoop, over the wall.

Eventually he played there to an audience of thousands. And you know that his flamboyant self was eventually covered with diamonds.

Phyllis Diller, another of Bristol’s aficionados,was not a beautiful, or a starlet, and she had a voice that could scratch records, but through her own mindset. effort and talent, she became wildly popular, including sitting in for Johnny Carson.

They had it, they used it, they got it.

Clyde Bistrol earned his writing chops—clear, succinct, on-target writing—as a Police reporter; think fast, get the facts straight, move on. He wrote not as an occultist, a spiritual teacher, or a scientist, but as a reporter. He was in the First World War and sent to France. He was a Grunt, carrying ammunition for the soldiers. Because of a mix-up, he wasn’t getting his salary. The military fed him, clothed him, and gave him a bed on the ground, but he had no money to spend. He began to envy the other soldiers who could light up a cigarette or throw away a gum wrapper. He vowed never to be in that situation again. Spurred to action, he studied and found The Magic of Believing, and has been praised for sharing what he found when others would have kept it a secret.

And so, dear ones, I shall open my poor yellowed pages of Bristol’s book The Magic of Believing, and begin to read it all over again, a book I have owned and loved for more than 30 years.

Five-thirty this morning: I'm reading Bristol's book, with love sleeping at the foot of my bed. 

Bristol writes,

“I am cognizant of the fact that there are powerful forces at work in this country that would dominate us, substituting a kind of regimentation for the competitive system which has made America great among nations. The world attempts to destroy individual thinking and initiative, cherished ever since our Pilgrim Fathers established this country in defiance of the world's tyranny. I believe that we must continue to retain the wealth of spirit of our forefathers, for if we did not, we shall find ourselves dominated in everything we do by a mighty few and shall become serfs in fact if not in name. Thus, this work is written also to help develop individual thinking and doing.”

“Since the beginning of man there have been two great subtle forces in the world—good and evil. Both are terrifically powerful in their respective scopes and cycles. The basic principle operating both is mind power. Massed mind power.

“Sometimes evil appears to have the upper hand. And at other times good is in control. It is power that builds empires, and now we have seen how it can be used to destroy them—history is recording the facts.” –[Written in 1967]

“THEREFORE TAKE GOOD CARE THAT YOU DO NOT MISUSE THE SCIENCE OF “MIND STUFF.” I cannot emphasize this too strongly. For if you employ it for harmful or evil purposes, it will boomerang and destroy you just as it has others down through the centuries. These are not idle words, but solemn words of warning.”

I have long believed that our Present President has been using mind stuff to get where he is, perhaps not intentionally, but through his belief system. He grew up feeling entitled. He never knew what it was to struggle or be poor. He got what he wanted, when he wanted, because he wanted it.

He set up the system to support himself. He gave himself almost complete power—never has a president had that, nor should they. He stacked the cabinet with cohorts who backed him. He has tried to silence all opposition: the media, the comedians who, since George Washington’s time, have used humor to make political comments, and Politicians were fair game; it was part of the deal. Not anymore. He gave us a preview of what was to come, but few noticed or cared.

He seems to believe without doubt. He runs roughshod over his people.

Thinking people doubt and question themselves; that’s the reason strong evil intent is so dangerous. They do not question their motives.

But notice, the great commander-in-chief is crumbling. To stop him, attack his belief system. He behaves as though he is above the law. He acts without restraint. If he is restrained, he throws a tantrum like a two-year-old. His yes-people run to his defense.

Don’t tolerate such behavior.

Stop tolerating his behavior--tearing down the white house to build a ballroom. Try getting a building permit, folks.

Stop tolerating that he can bomb another country without permission from Congress, clearly against the Constitution that he vowed to uphold. Vows? Apparently they mean nothing to him. We the people have been lied to, given false information, and had information withheld for so long that our brains are scrambled. That’s intentional, folks. Keep the masses confused, then swoop in and steal them blind.

He thinks, apparently, that he can do whatever he wants.

We say, “No, you can’t. Remember, you work for us.”

All other presidents had checks and balances. He wants none. Replace his belief system with another one.

It is up to us.

Notice he wants adoration, so don’t give it to him.

He wants loyalty above all else. Don’t do it.

If he doesn’t get his way, he throws a tantrum. Ignore it.

And keep the insults coming. He wants to be adored. Opposition will break down his resolve.

We can do it.

Take aim, folks.

I love you guys,

Jo