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Where is Main Street and How can I get There?

I have been watching the occupation of Wall Street and I am heartened at the unity of all these different people coming together.  I am hopeful that this will bring a global change.  Balance, equality, communication.  Living by values.

In my world, Homer Simpson is to be envied.   He owns his own home.  I’m a waitress, mom, forever renter and a writer.  I carve my writing life with a kitchen timer. I feel blessed to have what I have and I try to give.  It’s a tithe, my time, my money , my attention to matters outside of myself.  They are organizing or unorganizing as they say, occupations all over the United States.  Who are they? I don’t know.  They are not victims.  They are empowered by the first ammendmant and they are giving voice to general dissatisfaction of giant corporate interest.  I am proud that I live in a country where people can do this  I am also ashamed that a country can have such an imbalance  of resources. They are victims.

Change is electrifying, a shift of energy between powers and this shift is creating energy, forming alliances and working for the good of all, I hope and pray. Change is also terrifying for some of us, fear of the unknown, fear of trusting ourselves and our safety net of the present.  Change requires sacrifice, cooperation and faith.

Faith is huge in my life.  I hold fast to faith that this change will be better for all. That is why they are there.  That is why I continue to pray and pay attention to the 99%.  It is important to pass on a world where we act to make a positive change in a peaceful way. It is essential that our children believe and value everyone’s life and their actions and impacts.

One minute

When I am dead and gone to this world and my children are gathered in an overheated and overpaid lawyer’s office, salivating over the decor of my home which I lovingly refer to as Early American Garage Sale.  I have instructed  the lawyers to look into each of my children’s expectant, yet sorrowful, faces and say, “One minute.”

Twenty minutes later, they can divy up the  contents of my life, a collection of rocks, baby teeth and stonewashed jeans. Let’s not forget the giant bag of mismatched socks we gathered and decorated as a pumpkin for Halloween.

Over the years, in the space of a “One minute..” I have been able to highlight my hair and then run to the salon to fix it, try on 7 outfits with accessories  just in case I have somewhere to go,( besides, work, the grocery store or the mall.) I have been able to clean my car, watch an informercial on lint cleaners.  You get my drift.  When I ask, ” Set the table or brush your teeth or stop texting  at the table, please. ”

“One minute, ” my teenage daughter will respond as if the weight of unloading the dishwasher was a comet thrown from space.

“Justa sec,” my seven-year old will say. And roll her eyes.

Yes, I have a wish to go out like Liz Taylor, 15 minutes late to her own funeral, having the last laugh.  This morning as both daughter’s were calling me from separate rooms, I was tossing the clothes into the hamper and running around the kitchen, “One minute!”  I yelled.  Hmm… The apple doesn’t fall from the tree.