tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38126271516138965402024-03-12T17:22:30.567-07:00We're All Waking UpCrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-44976733171326645212017-03-01T20:55:00.003-08:002017-03-01T21:42:45.080-08:00Card Carrying Feminism<div style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"> </span> Last weekend I took a weekend trip to the coast with three of the closest women in my life. My mother, our sweet friend Lori, and my best friend, Demitria, spent the weekend immersed in each other… in eating, drinking, sunbathing, and a </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">whole lot</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> of talking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> I realized I’ve always been surrounded by accidental feminists. The men and women in my life have always required me to be funny, smart, playful, and self reflective. My father and my brother made me feel safe, valuable, and ultimately capable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> My earliest influences encouraged me to cultivate interests, strength, and a sense of humor. I remember my mother deflecting comments on my appearance or “cuteness”… with a token phrase that reverberates in my head, “she has a really good heart”. I started absorbing…even in my earliest memories… the important truth that conversations about females’ looks are boring… and more importantly destructive. I was taught that I should fiercely protect my fully complete soul, and learn to identify the ideologies that threaten it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> And in that spirit… <b><i>I wish for every woman in my life to grasp onto feminism. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> You don’t have to believe that any collective manifestation of the idea has been perfect, you do not have to agree whole heartedly with every word uttered by any woman whose claimed the idea before you, and you don’t have to call yourself a victim. It’s about acknowledging the rights we take for granted now… for which women before you tirelessly fought. It is our obligation to make the world better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Feminism gives women the vocabulary, the literary canon, and the fire… needed to push back against a strong and toxic passed-down-so-subtly narrative that threatens their self worth, their relationships, and their safety. It’s important. Your daughters and your friends need it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> They’ll need to understand the history of our society in order to protect themselves. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> They’ll need to understand that gender plays a huge role in their lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> They’ll need to know that the impulse they have to protect the male ego, handed down by generations they can’t name, does them and their relationships a disservice. They’ll need to know that in school and church, when they learn about sex, the conversation will be geared towards boys. They’ll be able to name the parts of a male’s anatomy before they can name their own….and when they do learn about their own, they’ll only remember that they can produce children. They’ll need the vocabulary to know why this is unfair. They’ll need to know that no matter how much they’ve “tempted” a boy, their body is their own and they have every right to it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> They’ll need a filter through which to absorb constant indoctrination. Every tired television sitcom rerun they see will feature married couples enacting a dangerous plot: the husband wants sex and the wife is tired and disinterested. They should learn to identify the dying ideologies that seek to slow down progress. Both men and women are sexual beings. Both men and women seek sex for pleasure. It is a tragedy that girls absorb an alternate reality… that their bodies exist for the pleasure of their spouses… that it is normal to dislike sex with their partners. Feminism teaches them otherwise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> They’ll need to know that every time they hear a girl talk negatively about another’s body, or clothes, or makeup… they should shut it down. They should know that it comes from Western society’s age old desire to make women objects.. and they should reject it. They should be taught that girls are not competing for the desire of men. They know the truth when they’re children… and we teach them otherwise. The societal machine is a strong one, and feminism gives us the tools to undo the damage we’ve done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> The American feminist movement doesn’t ignore that comparably, we have it so much tangibly better than women in other parts of the world. That is why American feminism is important. We have to call out what it is about the human psyche that puts women in danger. What ideologies are Americans holding on to that manifest in psychological and physical danger for women… because it is IDEAS about female inferiority that lead to their inexplicable suffering in other societies. Feminism is not an American concept… and in that strain... The Women's March was not only an American feminist demonstration. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> It’s not perfect. No human movement is. But this is a good thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> We had a female candidate for the highest office in the nation this year. She was more experienced than any presidential candidate before her… and she lost to the most unexperienced candidate in history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> The tide seemed to be turning as women everywhere watched the world take her seriously. The media stopped talking about her clothes, her looks, and her husband’s sexual history. Finally.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Donald Trump, however, reeks of an ideology about women that is dangerous and backwards. The media is back to talking about his wife’s and daughters’ clothes and looks… and we’re done with that tired narrative. It damages all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> He’s talked about my anatomy in the vernacular of a horny degenerate… and he won. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> That’s why this is so important now.<u> We cannot go backwards.</u></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> My friends and I will continue to fight for a world in which we want to raise children.. a world where little girls and boys are encouraged to be funny, smart, wild, dirty, and bossy… where little girls and boys are encouraged to show their emotions and be honest about who they are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> My mom, dad, and brother were accidental feminists… but I cannot and will not pretend that every little girl is so lucky.</span></div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-71078155901964115952016-06-15T00:27:00.001-07:002016-06-15T00:27:22.741-07:00We've Got Some Work To Do<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="font-size: 11px;"> </span> My brain is on fire. With the onslaught of violence, fear, and hollow divisive rhetoric we’ve all been immersed in over the course of the past few months… I trust others are buzzing too. I’m finding myself over and over again in conversations and in front of television screens absorbing strings of words: words about radicalized religion, words about assault weapons, words about strategies, words about mental illness, words about refugees… all immensely weighted subjects. But somehow the talk still feels hollow, like we haven’t quite found the truth.. the right conversation, the right action. </div>
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I’ve long clung to the words of Emerson, “Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your readings have been to you like the blast of a trumpet.” </div>
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What is shocking me, though, is that in the wake of the growth of ISIS… in the havoc this story has wreaked… in listening and absorbing and seeking the words of so many clouted intelligent humans, I haven’t heard many trumpet blasts.</div>
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I haven’t felt once while watching the news that overwhelming, warm, passionate call to action that inevitably results from hearing what one’s soul recognizes as truth. Our conversation sounds hopeless and I believe, maybe spiritually, that truth never leads to hopelessness. Truth never leads us to compromise our morals or to abandon our humanity. </div>
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A friend asked me recently to honestly ponder whether or not I am “afraid” of radical Islam. I’m far from perfectly enlightened. The scared little girl version of Crosby is as fearful of being shot or bombed or plotted against as anyone could be. But I can’t let go of the adult me, the fully human me, I’ve worked too hard on her… and there’s something different she’s fearing. </div>
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I am so very proud and thankful to live in America. I’m proud to live in the country founded on a belief in universal human rights and dignity. I’m thankful to live in a country that forces its children to understand that the world doesn’t fit into a singular story. While raised in a religious household, I was undoubtedly exposed to the notion that living in America, means living amongst and loving people unlike myself. We have the freedom to live our own story, and respect each others’ unique stories. I am thankful to have been raised in a safe country, governed by very capable intelligence agencies that protect me well. This country has made mistakes, as any collection of humans is bound to, but I believe history prods us closer and closer to moral truths every day on a collective scale. </div>
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And the rational adult me, the one who doesn’t rely on fear to construct my worldview, is afraid we’ve become too complacent in sacrificing these gifts… these gifts that are our strength. When fifty people are murdered while celebrating on a Saturday night, the simple and right human thing to do is to mourn, to cry, to condemn the senselessness. I’m scared that our conversation shifted too quickly away from a human reaction to tragedy, that the reaction from the United States to the world… appeared absent of the human heart. When the conversations I heard on the news and in homes jumped immediately to whether the issue is gun control or radical Islam.. it seemed to me as if we were looking for an explanation. There is none and there never was. I’m scared we’re compartmentalizing our heads and hearts in a way that will lead us to value policy over people, that we’re desensitizing ourselves to pure grief. </div>
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I believe, again perhaps spiritually, that there is a rather beautiful explanation as to why military action against ISIS isn’t working. This struggle requires us to sharpen our rationale, to expand our compassion, to look hard and cry as we search for truth…on a global scale.. it’s around dinner tables, at church, and at bars.. because this is a battle of ideas. The good news is… in the battle of ideas the truth always wins. </div>
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For those of us that love life, that love partying with our friends, that love to hear profound stories of the human experience and cry if we have to… it is now our obligation to make sure truth is expressed as clearly and as often as possible. Let us not construct our worldview out of fear and sacrifice our humanity, because then what we are afraid of surely wins. In the words of Patton Oswald, “The good outnumber you and we always will.” So let’s live up to our potential. </div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-6294884083080729262016-05-09T02:22:00.000-07:002016-05-09T02:22:16.478-07:00How to Forgive My Brain<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica;">
I know exactly what I don’t want to talk about… exactly what I don’t want to write about. </div>
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The problem with this reality, this scraping truth, is that at this moment it’s all I can say and it’s all I can think. If I can’t write about this… then it will be a long time before l I can write at all. It’s the rhythm of the thoughts in my head and it’s the speed at which words exit my mouth. This forbidden truth is the tempo of my reality… and I’m not one to write fiction. </div>
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I’ve been told more than once by the people I love that the things I’ve said or written when I’m most afraid are the things that matter. I’ve absorbed the lectures and words of my favorite authors and thinkers… that the vulnerable space produces the truest work. But shit it’s hard. </div>
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When I was sixteen I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, the lineage of which is embedded deeply into my blood, into my beautiful ancestry of tender caretakers and hard workers, of deep thinkers and God ponderers. I worked hard, as so many of my name have before me, to live in this world with a mind that operates a little bit differently than most… it took years. I really believed I had outrun it. </div>
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After therapy, medication, meditation, and re-evaluation of beliefs.. I even started to doubt its existence. It had been so long since I’d felt my hands shake. It had been so long since I couldn’t shower or sleep without noise to distract me from my own racing mind. My life began to feel like the causal blur I dreamed of and arrogantly imagined others experienced. </div>
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It had been years. </div>
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Then, after my vacation of floating and thoughtless abandon, I began to sweat. I got chills. My head felt heavy. It came back and it is back. </div>
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What I fear the most about sharing my story, I’ve realized, is that I fear it stands in contrast to what I espouse, what it is I feel most passionately. I believe the purpose of human life is to manifest the most selfless, compassionate, fully alive version of one’s self. </div>
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Talking about my own mental illness requires me to talk about ME, the all important self, admits that at my worst…my mind plays a constant news reel cycle of ME. </div>
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I fear that I have no right to talk about my struggle, as comparatively I’m aware there are so many beautiful humans on this earth whose struggle is mere survival. The scared voice in my head convinces me that if I ask for help, I’m abandoning the real work I feel I was put on this planet to do. </div>
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But that’s where the truth, or God maybe shows up. I’m a thinker and a feeler. I always have been. While my words might be slow, my brain moves at a pace at which I can barely control. While this hurts me on my worst days, I believe it is my resurrection story and my truest source of purpose. To look at a world of hurting people and not be hurt, is to not be fully alive. At the very least, I know I’m quite alive. </div>
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My mind has brought me every ounce of the immense joy I’ve experienced in my still very young life. It’s what makes me love reading and writing. It’s what makes me love my family, my friends, and this world with such intensity. But it’s time to admit it… my brain hurts sometimes. If you ever need someone to talk to, it could be me. I guess we don’t always choose our purpose. </div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-12833236670485881652016-04-09T01:41:00.001-07:002016-04-09T01:44:33.287-07:00Democracy 2016<div style="font-family: helvetica;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>I have a lot of friends who hate talking politics… and I get it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> I understand that the wheeling and dealing of millionaires in Washington D.C. and at some United Nations conference in Switzerland doesn’t change much about most of our tangible realities. Most of us will continue to go to work five days out of the week. We will continue to laugh about the same silly stories from our past weeks or years. We will continue to drink and dance and worry about money… and I truly believe we will continue to have conversations around tables that touch on a reality far deeper than the one we hear about on the news.. the kind of deep truths that only personal experiences and relationships can bring us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> So I’ve been contemplating what it is about political debate, then, that I still love, and I think it’s the way that it forces us to sharpen.. or soften.. our perspective of a world inhabited by so many people and communities other than our all-important “selves”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I love these conversations because they point to enlightenment. How highly do you value the policies of any one candidate or party that would do wonderful things… but only for people whose stories are identical to yours? How tightly to you hold to your own comfort?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The most beautiful political opinion or any opinion, in my perspective, is the kind that gives value to the concerns of people whose stories look nothing like mine. If I were to base my political opinions on solely my own experiences, I’m far overestimating my own importance, my own story… and there is no way the seven billion people on this planet, or the three-hundred million people in this country, would holistically benefit from the economic and social policies that would benefit Crosby Damron and family. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">But hey.. I’ve always been self deprecating. </span></div>
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CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-67485815558587785712016-03-10T01:18:00.000-08:002016-03-10T01:18:11.930-08:00Progress for the sake of progress I used to say I saw no value in small talk. I used to condemn it strictly for its shallow inquiries, and its tendency to encourage us to never actually open our bored ears. How's school? How's work? How are your parents or your kids? I can't remember what I answered or worse, what you said.<br />
I don't hate it so much anymore though. To be honest, I think I shied away from it so vehemently because I was embarrassed of my answers. When my parents' friends or acquaintances strolled in to buy coffee at my work, I would begin to formulate half-true answers to all too typical questions. "I'm in online school", "I'm about to get promoted", "I'm trying to move out of town", or "I'm looking for another job"... struggling to justify my existence to practical strangers. I'm worried we do this in smaller ways all the time. <br />
It turns out, though, there is more value in this kind of conversation than I ever imagined. So much fodder for what I think and write has stemmed from my discomfort at the assessments we make of each other based off of information that is entirely non-reflective of our cores. It is what we ask each other when we don't listen, the questions we ask rhetorically, assuming the answers are given, that point solely at what we have been taught and accept as the stipulations for a valuable life. Most of these conversations at my age, maybe at any age, boil down to an explanation of our never-ending movement, always ensuring each other that we are in the midst of a whirlwind of <u>progress</u>. "Trust me, please. Believe I'm working towards something better than where I am now." <br />
We feel guilty at the audacity of the thought, embarrassed to admit, that maybe we're standing still.<br />
And <i>this</i> is where remembering that I'm one of seven billion beautiful humans on this earth has changed me.<br />
I make very close to minimum wage, sure. Still, the externals of my life on paper would make me look like a damn Beverly Hills socialite in comparison to millions of our suffering human brothers and sisters. <br />
I've visited foreign countries with people I love.<br />
I own a car.<br />
I cook beautiful meals for my friends.<br />
I drink clean water thoughtlessly.<br />
I buy myself beer and makeup.<br />
I go to concerts.<br />
I'm surrounded by creative people who have the luxury of contemplating artistic pursuits.<br />
And what if career and school wise I aspired to nothing more?<br />
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Do I want to better myself? Absolutely.<br />
That sounds like constantly striving to love my friends and family better, to learn as much as I can about the world outside of myself, to absorb the words of poets and authors that ignite the fire of my own creativity. <br />
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I hope we can stop explaining our progress in terms of countable productivity, because it's not who we are. Let's tell each other what we've been reading or what makes us dance. Tell me what's bubbling out of your soul... because what we do might have nothing to do with who we are. I am content with where I am, no progress to speak of, but I promise you my soul is still moving. CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-58908350290821027592015-08-20T00:52:00.000-07:002015-08-20T00:56:00.944-07:00Right Here Right Now<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Twenty-two is a weird age. I’m very much a kid and I feel that truth in my bones. I stay up unreasonably late, dance for so long at bars that my feet hurt in the morning, and accept invitations to practically every social opportunity over enthusiastically. I require at least two days of my mom’s pep talks before doctor’s appointments and avoid setting up a 401k because I can’t imagine parting with fifty dollars of fun money every month… money I quite easily justify spending on fancy candles or concert tickets. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Interestingly enough, this kid lifestyle is pretty new to me. Anyone acquainted with me at seventeen can attest to that. I’ve always been a thinker, at times for better and at times for worse. Obsessed with my own anxiety, my responsibility to save the world, and my desperation for the approval of others, I sacrificed the possibility of experience in a years-long attempt to figure out what it “means” to be alive… the purpose of the human experience. Luckily though, I failed. I wrote about it, I read about it, I cried about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m done philosophizing my way out of life, because it doesn’t work. I can read and write about social theory, ponder with the smartest friends I have for hours about how relationships are supposed to work, develop staunch opinions on the importance of maintaining strict standards for human interaction… and then still end up with my heart-broken when a boy changes his mind about me. The silliest of young adult moments, the kind I was sure I was above… there’s no running from them. No opinion in the world, even the most beautiful words from your favorite poet, can safeguard you from experience. Because it is life itself, not the analysis of it, that cultivates and sets a flame under truth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>How about we plant ourselves here, right where we are? I’m learning to develop my “life theories” while I live, not before I live. I don’t want to float above experience and comment while the rest of the world dances or suffers.. because my feet are planted here and I want to soak it all in like the burning rays of the sun. I’m done living a life of ideas and turning it in for a life grounded in moments, because as it turns out you can’t distance yourself from your own story… and I’m tickled to have discovered that life has been chasing me for quite a while. </span></div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-33183470090909462572014-11-20T01:22:00.000-08:002014-11-20T01:22:29.538-08:00If I Believed in God Part 2: The Death Hour I used to think I was unique for having an anxiety disorder... generalized anxiety disorder as my charming grandfather-like psychiatrist specified quite nonchalantly to the sixteen year-old version of myself. I thought it was slightly glamorous and comforting, an excuse to let my brain off the hook. The dark weight, though, rolled in and reminded me that it's always been pretty sickening. I stumbled upon my own mortality at age six, while bouncing on a trampoline and cried to my mom that I couldn't believe a day will come when "I don't have any thoughts". The terror of this weird realization haunted me until last year when I finally mustered up the willpower to go to a "cognitive therapist". With some characteristic rambling to a man I didn't know outside of the confines of that bleak-looking room and a whole lot of <b>work</b>... I conquered this death obsession for now. I am uncomfortably conscious of my reality, that this obsession will likely be replaced with something new, but in this moment, my mind is peaceful. I'm pretty damn thankful. Now I'm trying to find some meaning... to find out why God would have implanted this debilitating obsession with life's brevity in my brain for so many years... and the <u>truth</u> is screaming, reeling around in my eardrums. <br />
If I believed in God... he would want his followers to plant themselves firmly in the here and now... on the dirt of this Earth with the people it sustains. <i>We are supposed to be here.</i><br />
The sacred texts I learned in church regarding the after-life are mythical... airy words, romantic promises of a future we hope for but can't really feel. Less vague and more tangible? The calls to action in <b>this</b> life... calls to love one another, to work towards justice, to withhold judgement, to protest on behalf of the poor and the oppressed.<br />
Our obsession with the insignificance of this temporary life threatens to convince believers that the betterment of life on Earth is futile, insignificant in the light of eternity. In this strain, where is the drive to feed a starving child? If what awaits the impoverished is a life in paradise after their quickly impending deaths... then all we must do is convince them to claim Jesus? No... if I believed in God... we feed them and protest the hoarding mentality that sustains poverty.<br />
I think a lot about the scripture, "Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven". I want to live and work for justice like this life I have on Earth is the most divine thing I will ever experience, because it feels immensely sacred. How do we conquer death? We live... because it's really fun.<br />
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<br />CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-38908002468525792332014-11-13T02:03:00.000-08:002014-11-13T02:03:17.006-08:00If I Believed In God Part 1: Camp Nelson My grandfather, Duane Damron, recently turned 80. At his charming birthday party, I cried as my family and I sang Buck Owens songs with him, loud and giggling in his house perched high on a Bakersfield hilltop. The gifts his life has given me danced along in my mind to to the sweet melody of my singing family. One echoing over and over in my soul... my Papa taught me to love nature. Not remotely a conscientious environmentalist, my Papa's fondness for the Earth is one of tradition and divine respect. My Papa and Grandma Frances raised only boys and bought a simple cabin high in the Sequoia National Forest as soon as they could afford it, a wilderness untamed enough to wear out the energy of three hyper little boys. As my divine luck would have it, my cousins and I ventured to this same haven every year of our own childhoods. We caught salamanders, fell in rivers, buried ourselves in snow, and trekked mud through the carpets of the cabin for years... all the while I fell in quiet love with nature. <br />
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If I believed in God... this God would inspire his followers to recognize his existence in these quiet places and require of them the prioritization of its reverence and conservation. If God didn't intend for humans to marvel at and fight for nature... how can we possibly justify the beauty that exists on this planet? I have to believe the Yosemite Valley and the peaks of Patagonia serve more of a purpose than to remind us that God is talented... they must be a call to action: to seek to make God's "will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven". If Yosemite is God's will... then damn I'm all for it.<br />
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<b>If I believed in God, I would believe that every time a Christian supports the compromise of nature for the idol of financial gain... his heart breaks. </b></div>
<br />CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-54852132295849047482014-11-04T01:54:00.001-08:002014-11-04T01:54:26.868-08:00If I Believed in God... The Preface <div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre;"> </span>For the first time in years, my brother and I live in the same house. I’m kind of giddy about it. We’ve spent countless nights over the course of the past few weeks sitting on our parents’ patio late into the night. Illuminated by candles and the moon, we’ve drank one too many glasses of wine, sang songs way too loudly, and reacquainted ourselves with each other as adults. This moment in time feels like a very intentional blessing as I sense his life is about to transition into something big and magical, making these evenings together so sacred. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Where I’m chatty, Cooper selects his words carefully. While all of my thoughts tend to grow into passionate lengthy run on sentences of which I can’t quite control the speed, Cooper speaks softly and more selectively. He’s the kind of guy that when he decides to enter into a conversation, people really focus. So when Cooper told me at our most recent patio party that I should reconsider how I approach my spirituality… I cried because I’m sappy and I agreed because I respect him. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I resigned myself from Christianity a few years ago. I haven’t been to church since, I haven’t read the Bible, and I haven’t prayed in the way I tried pretty desperately to for the first eighteen years of my life. However, I still sense within myself a love for an admittedly nameless God, mostly manifested in an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility for the universe and for humanity. My resignation from the Christian faith had less to do with God though, and more to do with people. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hate offending people. I have an intense respect for religion and appreciate how sacred and intense those beliefs are to people to whom I owe everything. Hence, when I realized my beliefs about God and scripture had potential to seem combative or contrary… I decided to separate myself altogether. I wanted to give people permission to dismiss me. If I wasn’t a part of their group, people I had potential to offend could stop listening to me. I <i>desperately</i> wanted that freedom because I needed reprieve. The life of a rumored atheist seemed like a warm and relaxing cave in which to dwell for a while. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">However, my brother has summoned me from my years-long vacation. There is a chance, I suppose, that the thoughts about God that plagued me as a child were planted in me for a purpose: to spark up a freewheelin’ conversation about the divine with the people I love, to encourage vulnerable discourse around patio tables about faith and fear. Our lives are pretty short so we might as well take </span>that risk<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">… I’ll go first. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">To force myself to stick with it I’ve thought in advance of a few perhaps not </span>politically<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> correct beliefs I hold about God. I plan on latching onto one per week… a little blog series if you will. I’m pretty apprehensive but… here goes nothin’. Each week I’ll introduce the God I could commit myself to, the potential aspects of a possible Creator that seem the most beautiful to me. Forgive any </span>guaranteed<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> accidental blasphemy… we’re all just little specks searching for truth to love and I for one can use all the help I can get. </span></span>CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-1925941125058123522014-09-25T03:45:00.002-07:002014-09-26T00:40:28.610-07:00Listen<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">As cliche as this may sound, I am the kind of person that regularly asks myself “what are we doing here?” And by that worn out question I imply the obvious… why are humans… here? Is there a reason? If so where can I, Crosby Damron, find it? This uninvited question has sat quite annoyingly at the base of all of my anxieties since I was around six. I was given an answer when I was young: “We are here to glorify God”… but that didn’t assuage my fears. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I matured and sought comfort among seemingly likeminded people, I encountered a new answer. These people told me that humans are not here for any sacred reason, that we are a biological accident, and that ultimately all intelligent people accept this. I was shocked to find however, that still… I wasn’t satisfied. I tend to find that when my mind encounters truth, relative as that may be, it feels at rest. I now use this resting sensation as some kind of truth radar: If I feel peace, my mind’s truth must be near. Here, then, is the closest I have come.. the “purpose of life” in which I feel most at home and most honest: <u>we are here to build and experience relationships</u>. Life altering. This purpose, though, is not a passive means to float through life unfettered. The conscious cultivation of relationships is a MASSIVE responsibility. Hence I introduce to the world my new goal: <i>conversation sensitivity</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My junior year of high school I was at friday night football game, reveling in nostalgia I wholeheartedly celebrated. This particular game took place at a wealthy Catholic school on the opposite side of town. Sitting amongst my classmates and strangers, my life felt remarkably movie-like.. shallow and easy… a fantasy I often longed for. Just in my periphery, though, I noticed erratic movement, a transient women walking frantically in front of the bleachers. Intensely emaciated and smoking a cigarette, the heavily made up woman mumbled to herself as she made her way erratically in front of the crowd. Not surprisingly, the people around me began to chat quite uninhibitedly about the spectacle. “What is she doing here?” “Smoking on a high school campus?” The woman’s appearance, her movements, her indecipherable chattering… nothing was off limits from the small talk of strangers. It was then that I looked down at the cheerleaders and caught the eye of my panicked best friend. This woman was her estranged mother and she was terrified. In this moment I powerfully realized the true weight of our conversations. Many of the people I heard taking about my friend’s mother were close friends of her daughter, entirely unaware of the heartbreaking connection, and only an earshot away from making an uncomfortable situation devastating. I am entirely aware of how many times I have perhaps been the talker in similarly heavy situations, loving the sound of my own voice more than I actively love the humans around me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our words are so very powerful. They can and do unavoidably change the lives of those around us as well as ultimately the entire world we live in. I feel it is so important then, that we consciously practice using our words to invite more humanity into our individual lives. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For me, this starts with trying tirelessly to adopt the belief that.. chances are… the next person I meet’s life probably looks <b>nothing</b> like mine. He or she probably grew up in a different neighborhood, with different family structure, different religious teachings, different political beliefs, different taste in music, different social boundaries, a different human experience. Under this assumption.. it becomes intensely important to avoid killing a potential relationship before it starts with ostracizing phrases. With every utterance of:</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I would never…” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t understand people who…” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I hate…” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I am against…” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I simply increase the possibility of convincing a potential friend that I am incapable of accepting him or her, informing them passively of what they cannot confess to me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next lesson I am learning in conversation sensitivity is one of diction. In literature, diction implies the specific choice of words by an author to evoke a certain tone. Day to day life can show our word choice informing strangers of our “tone” dangerously accurately. In potentially controversial conversations our word choice is capable of inadvertently informing others that there is no <i>need for discussion</i>. I truly value the opinions of others too highly to allow myself to (however accidentally) dismiss a conversation before it begins. Time with other humans is simply too sacred. Imagine, yourself discussing the ethics of abortion with a very new acquaintance. In your first sentence, an immediate statement of opinion, you use the word “murder”. It would be alarmingly clear to your acquaintance exactly how you felt about abortion, after the utterance of one word, and the conversation has either escalated to an argument or has ended. A tragic loss of a potential meaningful conversation that could have exposed light on the intricacies of life. <i>Similarly</i>, racial, ethnic, and sexual slurs used casually, jokingly among a group of familiar faces run the risk of hitting someone sharply, isolating a newcomer inevitably. <u>Is it worth it? </u></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In my day to day life, I am striving to practice conversation sensitivity in ways that are challenging for me. Time in conversation spent laughing, drinking coffee under the stars, crying, and discovering the beauty of being human alongside all kinds of people… convinces me that holding onto each other is worth putting in a bit more effort. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We owe it to each other. </b></span></span></div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-4887256698338081232013-03-11T04:02:00.003-07:002013-03-11T04:10:12.143-07:00Entitlements I can see myself, decked out in red white and blue, glitter all over my body, hair slicked back in bump-free pigtails... singing "Proud To Be an American" in an emotional duet alongside my dear friend, Jessica. A highly patriotic ten year old, I sang along to the good ole' boy America lovin' anthems of Toby Keith and nodded my head to Sean Hannity, memorizing blurbs of Fox News I would proudly recite to my surely bored friends on the play structures of Laurelglen Elementary. "The problem is entitlements... illegal immigrants and welfare moms and criminals and liberals and atheists... they're all just so 'entitled'. And that's not what America is about you guys.. it's about hard work and church and the Army and country music." I'm exaggerating... but I guess here my parents should have speculated I would passionately seek activism, as I've always chased opinions.<br />
Vocabulary and rhetoric are charged entities I've come to learn, and reflecting on the way your words sound to others can inspire some serious personal revelations. The word 'entitlement' is defined as "the belief that one is deserving of certain privileges". In high school I became quite obsessed with the application of this word to my own circumstance.. as I heard its synonym thrown around in political debate and my own government class. What privileges was I born with? What privileges are Americans born with? And perhaps more importantly... do I believe that I am deserving of these privileges? <br />
I concluded simply... I am insanely lucky. I was born in America, a land of relative safety... a nation founded on the principles of human rights. I realize that millions, perhaps billions, of people are forced to fight for safety from an early age, as their homeland provides them no such comfort. I was born to parents that planned diligently for my arrival, painstakingly insuring that I would always be fed, sheltered, and loved. I have seen heartache in my family, but have known the profound peace that comes with the realization that my parents would make any sacrifice for my happiness. I could get fired from my job... my house could burn down... I could be a drug addict... I could have a baby... but I can think of several people who would provide for me unconditionally. I cannot believe how crazily lucky I am. I did nothing to deserve this comfort... I inherited it. It's as if I was given the rarest gift on the day I entered the world. I've done nothing profoundly noble. I'm not a hero or a scholar. I make coffee part time to pay my rent and spend way too much money traveling to Malibu to visit my best friend.<br />
I know few exceptions to this luck. Most of my friends were similarly born in America... to families that love them.. however dysfunctional. We sleep on store bought mattresses, drink clean water from our faucets, and laugh at dumb videos we watch on the Internet. Some of my friends live more luxuriously than others, but even those of us who live pay check to pay check know we can find an easy way to eat our next meal. We are so lucky. I am so lucky. And I have done absolutely nothing I can think of that could inspire me to say "I, Crosby Damron, deserve this." <br />
The portrait of someone who deserves such a stress-free life is easy for me to paint. She wakes up at five to go to work. She works over forty hours a week in a crazy, loud, hot kitchen making food for picky customers who are rarely satisfied. She exits the kitchen for her break sweating, smiling, and laughing. She never complains, thankful for the opportunity to support her children. Her personality is magical, known for loving everyone and being beautifully open with her affections. She has seen far more than her share of fear and heartache, as she fled her home for the promise of a country that would keep her future babies safe. She has taught herself English piece by piece, and seeks opportunities that will make her speech more fluent. She lives in fear of deportation, hiding from the government that she hoped would protect her. Her children attend public school, and she pores over their homework every night, relishing in her own dream that her children lead the lives she blissfully imagines for them. She immigrated here from Mexico and manifests the ideology of the American dream in a way that puts my peers and I to shame.<br />
If one of us has to be deported... I nominate <u>myself</u>. My merits for the inheritance of the privileges are painfully unfounded. If hard work and constant ambition for betterment are stipulations of the American Dream... those of us who have earned our privileges on luck alone have no more right to the entitlements of being an American citizen than those who have snuck across the border. We simply snuck into hospitals. <br />
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<b>"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,</b><br />
<b> The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.</b><br />
<b> Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"</b><br />
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If this country can find in its heart to <i>abide by its promise to the fearful of this world</i>... I can possibly find it in my heart to declare once again someday that I am proud to be an American. <br />
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CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-48744165410880377102013-03-07T01:55:00.002-08:002013-03-07T02:00:58.326-08:00Vessel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's rare that my scatter brained, passionate psyche focuses on anything specific for long. I have trouble articulating my opinions on politics and religion in serious discussions because my views are lofty... all encompassing... admittedly far from practical. I try to summarize my mind by repeating "I don't care about money" and "people are inherently good"... but get lost in frustration based on my inability to wrap my bleeding heart around specific talking points... I speculate I just can't bring myself to believe that the human world can be calculated... it's too colorful, too emotional, and far too surprising...and my brain explodes into a vibrant kaleidoscope of thoughts and songs and poems and pictures whenever I try to reach for the tiniest topic. <br />
However, the past few months I have been harboring a tangible sadness for something quite specific... and I'm grasping and clinging for this sign of temporary clarity. Whenever articulated fervency strikes I choose to absorb it as a sign of providence, perhaps a lengthy psychological obsession means I have found one of my soul's please.<br />
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<u><i> 80% of United States women claim they "do not like the way they look"</i></u><br />
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This may seem superfluous or vain, a far cry from my usual dream of cultural revolution; but self acceptance and learned appreciation for the divine mystery of life are dependent upon one another. As long as humanity continues to define itself by external stories, we will be forever asleep. How can we accept each other and learn to cherish the differences that make life on earth so amazing... how can we understand that we depend on each other.. when our culture so rampantly encourages the belief that our bodies, the amazing vehicles that allow our souls the very gift of life, are insufficient? <br />
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So from the deepest parts of me I plead: <b>Women... it's time we stop hating our bodies.</b><br />
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I've never been one for intentional exercise or purposeful dieting. I like to ride my bike, do yoga, swim, and play outside but even the thought of running on a treadmill makes me experience phantom side pains. I've always loved vegetables and simple foods, but I also eat approximately a pint of ice cream a night. I smoke cigarettes occasionally. I'm far from the peak of fitness... I get winded running from my car to the front door. Hence... I don't mean "love your body" in the way society preaches... implying the conscious betterment of our transcendent souls' physical shells. I mean banish self hatred and fall in love with your body... now.<br />
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I am genuinely heartbroken by the realization of Western society's decision to weave learned dissatisfaction with the female body into our cultural story. I'm tall and thin and have wiry limbs, never one to struggle with weight or intense body image issues.. but even I... if standing in front of a mirror... choose things about my body to be unhappy with. Be it my thighs or my skin or my flipper like feet... I catch myself teaching the whispered lessons of society to my reflection. It's almost an obligation. I have NEVER had a female friend who is comfortable with every part of her body. Heart wrenching.<br />
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Fitness magazines, diet plans, low fat alternatives, skinny lattes, SO MANY CHOICES OF FACE WASH, trendy exercise classes, fat girls, skinny girls, cleavage, hair extensions, Pinterest boards for "body envy"... echoing the same tired sentiment over and over, louder and louder... "You as you are, mo matter who you are, no matter how much you weigh, no matter how beautiful you may be... you can be better. You must be better. The way you look now should be improved upon. It's honorable to never be content with your image. Your body is a temple.. so bettering it is noble work."<br />
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I propose this notion instead: Let's love our "temples" as they are. <b>Now</b>. Not in the future when wer're skinnier or "healthier". <br />
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If we're honest with ourselves... our obsession with fitness boils down to loving ourselves... just "not the way I look right now." <br />
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As for me I'm done hating the female body. I'm done with thinking I'm less than ambitious for not seeking to make my physical self "stronger". I'm happy enough with my ice cream, thank you. Let's stop thinking women who completely love their bodies are conceited. Let's stop being uncomfortable with the notion that we're allowed to love ourselves. Our bodies are miracles... capable of producing life and taking us on adventures all around the world. We swim, dance, laugh, and make beautiful stories in these beautiful bodies. I'm all for healthy living, but healthy living starts not with diet changes and working out... but with looking in the mirror and deciding to love your body as it is in this moment... in all its flabby, bony, bumpy glory.<br />
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Challenge yourself to never criticize another woman's body. The female body is a sacred and sexy miracle... and it's time we stop buying in to the lies that inspire us to do anything less than cherish every inch of ourselves. <br />
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<br />CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-74972961368258615122013-02-19T17:46:00.001-08:002013-02-19T17:54:07.204-08:00The Machine Once put under the metaphorical microscope, modern society is fashioned after the workings of a not too complex machine. This machine runs on the fuel of expectations.. we have expectations for what childhood, adulthood, career, success, education, nature, and relationships are supposed to look like. Consequentially, we are met with unparalleled stress when life doesn't look how the malfunctioning machine assured us it would. Rebellious children, lying adults, a dwindling career, poverty, natural disasters, failed relationships... are not only reacted to with grief and human understanding... but with shock and malevolent surprise. "I took all the steps, i pushed every button at the time I was told, I watched the conveyor belt moving forward.. then the machine exploded. How could this happen?" Our societal machine has Mother Nature down to a science. Earthquakes can only shake so hard. Hurricanes can only get so big. Loss of human life can be controlled and calculated. When she proves her strength, stretches beyond the boundaries of our machines... she becomes a cold calculated villain. The nature machine has a glitch.. time for a software update. A well oiled machine is without surprise.. no discomfort... no guilt.. no suffering... no insecurities.. and no fear.<br />
Much of our confusion, sorrow, and sense of failure.. stems from the fact that humanity makes a horrible machine. We react in ways that cannot be predicted, sometimes even surprising ourselves with our strengths and weaknesses. We seek each others acceptance to the point of violence, lashing out in desperate attempts to be seen. We love with our whole bodies, in ways deeper than modern science can begin to understand. Our energies are connected to all of nature, similar I suppose to the parts of a machine, but connected by subconscious understanding of interdependence... a system far more spiritual than mechanical. <br />
We set up an economy on the machine mentality.. watching graphs of money go up and down on a screen.... as we the buyers and sellers operate our part of the supply and demand machine.. pushing buttons and swiping cards.. doing our duty for the economic computer we depend on.<br />
We go to schools like factories... learning to fall into our place at the conveyor belt.. pushing products and ideas down the line to be absorbed and sold.<br />
We fall in love as robots, expecting relationships to be calculated and easy to understand. If you say this he says this.. if you feel this he feels this... you get married.. you have babies.. you grow old and invest in your retirement... and then you grow old happily and move to a quaint little nursing home.<br />
The machine hums and moves and progresses and becomes all encompassing... every facet of our lives is fueled by the natural gas of our robotic expectations.<br />
Then... the machine malfunctions. We realize not the machine mentality's flaws.. but instead mourn for our own, seeing ourselves as the unique failures for our supposed shortcomings and worthlessness. We sit in shame as we, the human failure, see our lives as vast disappointment. <br />
Realize this: humans are beautiful spiritual animals... built with mystery and magic in our blood. We are destined to live with surprise and fear and rage and love... uninhibited by the bounds of a machine. Your soul longs for ecstasy, nature, freedom, and mystery. We make excellent lovers and explorers, but terrible machines. Own that.<br />
I made the strange, rather impulsive decision, to postpone school. I felt the machine underneath the motivations of my life's journey and decided to step back and sit in the quiet. It's terrifying and I can feel the transitory calm before the revolutionary storm. But here I am... waiting for the cosmic signs as to how to purpose a life unlimited by my own expectations, and resigning from my duties at the societal factory. <br />
<br />CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-75049827606347476272013-02-06T14:53:00.003-08:002013-02-06T14:53:37.981-08:00A Time To Grieve I recently was blessed with the opportunity to attend a conference for media professionals seeking to transform the world into a better place through the use of their art... I felt mildly out of my league to put it lightly... but sat quietly in the back for a solid five hours absorbing as much inspiration as my brain could handle. Days later, I find my mind clinging to a brief presentation by artist, Chris Jordan. Before you read any further, I implore you to look at his work... unbelievably resonant.<br />
The conference was a blur of mass information: consciousness, transformation, environmental conservation, mental illness, storytelling, money, books... a lot to absorb... however, i find myself dwelling on and retelling to my peers only one statement presented by Jordan. In the words of Walt Whitman "Whatever satisfies the soul is truth." If Jordan's one plea to the audience of a thousand has stuck with me so profoundly, I believe my soul has longed for this truth since its birth. Simply put he implored... "our society needs to grieve."<br />
Jordan explained that after the Holocaust, German artists used their medium as a catharsis for decades, manifesting the shame of their society onto canvases, sheet music, screens, literature, every artistic medium. German society acknowledged their human role in mass horriffic loss, looked inward at their conscience, and moved forward together as a united, grieving society. Germany's people had experienced the darkness that shows itself when a society falls asleep... and in the aftermath of World War Two, they cried together and reflected on what they had done... even those who played a role only in their passivity. Societies are made up of humans, bringing with it all the fear, insecurities, love, stories, and risk that human nature allows. Germany decided not to run from their dark foundations, and realized that acknowledging darkness in retrospect, is required to move forward into the possibility of light.<br />
Amidst the chaos that American society has found itself lost in, foundations must be questioned. Our nation has seen its share of shame. Violence, mass environmental disregard, unjust wars, enslavement of minorities, failure to see each other as humans, money put on a pedestal... we as humans, must acknowledge our missteps and their horrible consequences. We cannot pass our shame onto future generations... seeing ourselves and our ancestors in a light of innocence. We are humans, all of us, and projected innocence of our past does not amount to nobility. <br />
It is remarkably beneficial to grieve in solidarity with each other, as shared sorrow has the power to connect us in ways that saccharine small talk cannot. I am an eternal optimist for the future... however, the future does not come to us like an impending wall... we create it. American society has to stop the movement for just a moment and decide that we WILL not be afraid of grief. We must acknowledge that we are a country made up of humans, all the dirt and gore that human implies. We have made mass mistakes and continue making them every day. It's time we grieve together for our slaughter of forests and animals. It's time we grieve together for our acceptance of violence and oppression towards the vulnerable. It's time we grieve for our failure to see money as nothing more than imaginary numbers on paper. It's time we grieve for our time of passive sleep. Grieving is nothing to be afraid of... and we have to do it together.<br />
<br />CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-84123074573689660142013-01-30T00:46:00.004-08:002013-01-30T00:46:38.738-08:00My Biggest Fear Elusively, I mentioned that I had "changed" a lot, since I stopped writing in my old blog. Not only were these changes the reason I ceased writing publicly, they made me <i>ashamed</i> of my old thought processes and words. More than shame, however, they made me uncomfortable. Reading through the words of my past life, and it feels like just that, the ramblings of a girl I can't even feel any more, it scares me to realize how confused I was. While I wrote a few things I was proud of and still feel bubbling up from within my soul, the love I have for my brother for instance, several posts are chock full of religious cliches and explain longings to know the god I sought after for seventeen years, the god I no longer believe in. I was so desperate for depth and connection to the universe.. and I know now that I tried to convince myself with my own writing... that the god of my childhood was the answer to my guilt and disapproval of myself. It was as if I believed that by repetition of thought and accolades for my writing, I could convince myself to be a part of a religion in which I found no comfort. I couldn't even read these posts anymore as I tried to develop into who I knew I was supposed to be, and I wanted no one else to know the old me.. for fear she would hold me back from evolution into myself. <div>
However, I know now that these recordings of my spiritual development are nothing to be fearful of. Sure.. while reading them I will always be reminded of the maelstrom of guilt and deceit that was my true mind at the conception of these saccharine pieces of literature; but I have come to realize that evolving into the person you are is a process, in which every step is valuable. I was a girl desperate for acceptance, and using the name of God was the quickest, surest way I knew to get people to love me. </div>
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The internet will now hold record of Crosby Damron begging for the approval of her friends and family with a high school blog, and I'm thankful. Perhaps part of my life's purpose is to serve as a reminder of the human need for acceptance. </div>
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I have come to know that next to food and shelter, rests the inherent human longing for acceptance. Every decision we make, every word we say, every attempt at success, boils down to our relentless need to be loved unconditionally. I need to know I am loved not only in spite of, but because, of what I believe honestly, what I live for, and the mistakes I make. I am working on giving this grace to others, because I know the detriment to the psyche that is caused from living an untruthful life. I vow to never inspire others to live a life dishonest to their heart in order to win my acceptance. I thank the universe and am reminded of the inherent goodness of the human heart every time I am reminded of what I have come to know... that I have a mother, father, brother, and friends who convince me everyday that I am <b><i>accepted</i></b>. <br /><div>
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CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-163261124059456142013-01-27T23:58:00.003-08:002013-01-27T23:58:56.509-08:00Humanity's Story Recently I finished reading a disturbing novel by the name of Ishmael. It was small.. in length only... so I had no reservations in selecting the single copy from the shelf of my local Barnes and Noble.. thinking to myself "this will be easy". However... it was the most uncomfortable reading experience I could have ever imagined. But I simply could not set it down. I say disturbing with the utmost passion... to claim it as life changing would be an understatement. If I could force it in front of the eyes of everyone I know I would... If I could set up a podium and read every word aloud with the utmost clarity I would. While describing the book to a friend of mine recently, her face went pale and she recounted an anecdote of an acquaintance she encountered who had simply resigned from life after reading Ishmael... feeling so inspired, yet so inadequate, that he decided engagement with society was simply not worth the effort.<br />
I feel silly even trying to summarize Ishmael, as I feel doing so diminishes its power or spills some kind of divine secret, but I vow to try. Ishmael tells the tale of a disenchanted man who responds to an ad in his local newspaper, "seeking a pupil trying to save the world". He is then called to the address of an abandoned office building and reluctantly enters, only to find an eerie room occupied by a full-sized, fully intimidating, talking gorilla. Said gorilla, Ishmael, proceeds to teach his pupil what is wrong with our cultural story, why it will fail, and what society must do about it. The novel then, is essentially a non-fiction dialogue, set within the bounds of a fantastical tale. Yes, I realize, a talking gorilla sounds silly, and when describing the plot to my peers I felt as though I was letting the gravity of the book fall through the cracks of my dialogue.<br />
The rantings of this fictional gorilla however, have breathed their way into my everyday life and have made me see things so differently, in a way I really didn't sign up for. But I'm so thankful. Perhaps humanity's hope is dependent on my generation starting to feel discomfort creep in the back of our minds. <br />
As Ishmael has taught me, each human is taught a cultural story upon which to base our lives. We begin our schooling the very day we enter life on this pale blue dot. We are taught things even bigger than religion and political ideals. We are taught what to value, we are taught how to live, we are taught how we got here, and we are taught who we are. There's no one to blame for the story we are force fed, because our parents were taught practically the same tale. We are taught, sometimes subtly, that our lives are a competition. No one escapes. We are taught to conquer our environment, nature included, that the whole world is ours for the taking. We are taught that "success" is our highest goal, in its many variations. What I am asking whoever is reading my little blog to ponder is "what if"... what if I teach my future children a different story? Even slightly. <br />
What if I teach my children that life is not a competition, that they are blessed to be a part of nature and it is their obligation to cherish it, that their goal in life should be to nurture their spirit, to become exactly who they feel they should be? What if my generation taught our children a story slightly different from the one humanity has inherited for hundreds of years?<br />
We live the story we are taught. Our human "story", our <i>society</i> if you will... is not instinctual... it is <b>taught</b>. Entirely. What if the next generation learns something <u>even a little bit</u> different.<br />
Take it a step further now. Imagine what they could teach their children. The story will evolve over generations. If humans are taught to simply become who they truly are, perhaps mental illness will stop plaguing our societies. Perhaps if we teach children they are dependent, not dominant, to nature... our environmental catastrophes will dissipate, and we will take up our rightful role as lovers of the universe. Perhaps if we teach them they are not trying to win with their lives, poverty and war will cease to exist within the next few centuries.. because we will absorb the truth that we are dependent upon one another.<br />
Stories are a powerful thing. We live and breathe by them. We raise children by them. We base economies on them. We start wars fueled by them. What if the story changed?CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3812627151613896540.post-62386061448537808882013-01-26T01:12:00.000-08:002013-01-26T01:12:48.384-08:00Here we go again... I love to write. I do. I live, work, and play within a three mile radius, so I struggle occasionally with feeling lost within the humdrum rut of a daily, all too small, routine. However, amazingly.. whenever I write, whenever I pour out my thoughts with a pen or a keyboard onto a blank paper or screen, the depth comes fumbling right back in. After a hiatus, my sentiments may be unclear, or my vocabulary unelevated, but I can sense it coming back.. my love and supposed affinity for the written word. <div>
I used to have a blog and while I wasn't a very prolific author, my words seemed to be well received. My blog got a lot of views and at one point I was approached by a few advertisers; however, the little voice in the back of my head assured me that writing was vain. "Who do you think you are?" it asked... "why do you value your own thoughts enough to make them public? Keep them in your head where they belong." Furthermore, I changed a lot. My belief systems were in a process of evolution. Reading back over some older posts I didn't recognize my own thoughts, which scared the crap out of me. So simple as that... I stopped. One year ago. </div>
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However, inspiration has struck and the only option I have is to write about it. Typing is faster than handwriting and my thoughts are moving at a pace that even my typing hands can barely keep up with. This blog, then, is a result of my stumbled upon passion for life, and perhaps this fervency will be enough to keep me writing. I'm desperate for it. This past weekend I had the profound opportunity to meet one of my favorite authors, humanitarians, and philosophers... Tom Shadyac, who convinced me that my life changes when I change. He asked me simply "What do you love to do?" I said "Write." He said something along the lines of "Then that is your duty to the world." I truly believe that the world's redemption lies in the hands of those who have come alive, who seek what they love. </div>
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Now to the voice of my doubt I say "leave". Simple as that. I want to be a writer and I am confident that the written word has the power to be a weapon for positive change on the small blue dot we call home. Humanity is the most highly evolved species, gifted with the divine task of literature so write I will. I vow to use my words and my little corner of the internet to spread compassion and provoke thought... even if my mother is the only reader. I love you universe. </div>
CrosbyDamronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09946627905881824971noreply@blogger.com4