Passages from the FBI File on Tara Adams

Photo Credit: Flickr by Cliff

1. March 1, 1983. Our subject, born Tara Kathleen Gordon in 1975, recently came to the attention of the government due to her involvement with a group known only to the Bureau as "Scissilla." We believe this to be a code name for some sort of terrorist organization. Today, an agent engaged the subject in conversation in her third grade classroom, having assumed the guise of a friendly substitute teacher. Tara spoke freely and, in fact, passionately about Scissilla and her beliefs surrounding it and its related worlds (or perhaps, cells), while cantering back and forth and twisting the hem of her dress. (It was noted, by the agent, perhaps irrelevantly, that she was the only girl in her grade not wearing jeans.) Tara claimed that Scissilla exists in a parallel Universe which connects to ours through a magic waterfall. In Scissilla, she claims, everyone lives as a shepherd or farmer and is at peace with the world, practicing no violence. There is though, according to the subject, a neighboring world, Jipsivan, which is currently attacking both Scissilla and its surrounding worlds. Tara believes that "Jipsie" agents are currently at work on Earth and that she, a native of Scissilla, has been reborn here in order to stop them. After consideration, the Bureau believes this issue may be more germane to the field of psychiatry than national security. Due to the seriousness of any charge of terrorist activity, we will, however, maintain a file on Ms. Gordon.


2. August 15, 1994. Tara Gordon again came to the attention of the Bureau today while attempting to board a plane from Boston, having carried a double-edged knife to the security line. This peculiar series of events, which suggest a miscalculation in our previous decision to suspend surveillance of this subject, played out as follows. The nineteen year-old Ms. Gordon approached the TSA personnel at security proffering an elaborately decorated dagger and a polite expression. She explained that she had purchased this item in a store in Ocean Point, Maine for the purpose of giving it as a gift to her boyfriend and had then taken a car and Greyhound bus to Logan Airport, where she and her mother now planned to travel back to the San Francisco Bay Area. It had occurred to her at some point, she illustrated, that perhaps there might be a problem with transporting this knife onto an airplane and, in order to avoid having her baggage seized, decided that the best course of action would be to pack the item in carry-on and then retrieve it, to reveal to the TSA personnel, so that, with her accompanying explanation, they need not be alarmed about her bringing it on-board. However, at the point of her brandishing a dagger illegal in the state of Massachusetts in an international airport, things soured quite suddenly and the authorities were contacted. When agents arrived, in the guise of a small group of Hari-Krishnas, events found Ms. Gordon in tears over the loss of her dagger, which she claimed was a religious item, and the degradation of her character that accompanied this experience. Strange as it may seem, it is this agent's impression that Ms. Gordon was not engaged in a terrorist act, but was instead acting on a sort of ridiculous, unproved faith in the inherent eagerness of the world to understand her intentions. Naturally though, the file will remain open and very limited surveillance will commence, to protect the government's interests.


3.  October 27, 1994. A thorough background investigation into Tara Gordon received today reveals some troubling items. Apparently, there has been some question as to the patriotism and American values of her family going some ways back throughout their history. Her father's family hails, not insignificantly, from Russia, but her mother's family, although not Bolshevik by lineage, is worse. Apparently, Ms.Gordon's maternal grandfather, one A.Powell Davies, longtime Unitarian minister of All Souls Church in Washington D.C., was an antagonist to the government during the years of his peak influence. His FBI file reveals notes stating that Rev. Davies awoke every morning before dawn and worked at a printing press underneath his house, producing Communist propaganda which he would later distribute about the family's neighborhood. (It is noted that his wife, Muriel Davies, was later observed frequently to have said that not only was her husband not a Communist but that he never arose early enough to do anything before dawn.) Evidence of un-American sympathies does not end there, however. Rev. Davies was actively critically from his pulpit, of the activities of the House Un-American Activities Committee, and his church provided gifts of drawing supplies to the children of Hiroshima following the bombing which ended the war with Japan, a clear act of traitor-ship.
   
   His daughter, Bronwyn Gordon, is perhaps even more questionable if somewhat less influential. On no less than seven separate occasion, a note has been made by TSA employees of Ms. Gordon's behavior when passing through security at airports, her presence at the previously mentioned dagger incident notwithstanding. Her comments have included statements such as "Well, did you find an explosive?," "It's not as if I have a BOMB!" and "If you search my disabled client inappropriately, I will call the police!" It seems that Ms. Gordon also lived for a time with her then husband, Tara's father, in a tepee, on some land that did not belong to either of them, in the state of Washington. Both Rick Gordon and Bronwyn Gordon's presence in Berkeley in the Summer of Love is also a damning piece of evidence against them. At this time, both of them were caught up in notions of  "people's power" and it is suspected that they may have consumed illegal street drugs.
   
   Ms. Tara Gordon herself, the new report reveals, was present at the Gulf War protests in the company of a friend who strongly resembled Jesus Christ but was 6'2" and photographed wearing both a Russian ear hat and a pin bearing the hammer and sickle. This friend later joined the Trotskyist Party and remains, we find, an avid Trotskyist to this day. Ms. Gordon herself at this time referred to herself alternately as a utopian socialist, an anarchist and a faery. Clearly, we must keep a close watch on the activities of Tara Gordon. At some point, she will be caught in act of outright terrorism.


4. March 1, 2012. After close to thirty years of observing this subject, we believe it is finally time to close the file on the 36 year-old woman now dubbed Ms. Tara Adams. After what seemed a disturbing trend toward terrorist socialism at a young age, Ms. Adams has settled into bland normalcy in all of her daily dealings, year after tiresome year. It is noted that she has produced three children of unusually troublesome temperament, but this cannot necessarily be construed as a terrorist act. Periodically, Ms. Adams, or her husband–an outspoken Unitarian in the same vein as her grandfather–will make a remark worthy of notation in this file, but no action ever comes of this, and their activities reveal a pattern of soccer games, vegetable consumption and medical appointments. After Ms. Adams began writing her blog, Faith in Ambiguity, in 2010, it slowly became clear to agents studying her that the initial impressions of field envoys in 1983 were correct. Ms. Adams is clearly a case for psychiatry, but not, it seems, for the FBI. As of today, the file of Ms. Adams is officially closed and all investigation into her bizarre activities will cease.

Now I remember.

Today's #ReverbBroads11 prompt:   Post a picture of you that you like, write about yourself, post a video - what do you want your self-portrait to say about you? via Kristen at http://kristendomblogs.com/

I was a creative kid, and I always thought I was going to be special. 

My family taught me to believe that I was brilliant and I could change the world.

I had my first son when I was twenty-two. I was a very young twenty-two, but I was a good mother. 

I just didn't know yet that the most important thing in the world was not going to end up being whether or not my kids played with wooden Waldorf toys but whether or not they could learn to make lives worthy of their putting their socks and shoes on everyday; lives that make them catch their breath and forge onward, even when it hurts, because the pain is not as big as the feeling of inspiration that they have learned how to summon.

Photo by Samara Graham, 2010

I had Mikalh when I was twenty-nine, after my divorce and before Mike and I got married. I wasn't expecting to have any more kids, and I had just traveled right into the fiery heart of Mordor and, in a convulsion of mingled despair and blind faith, tossed in everything that had gone before. 

Mikalh made room in my heart for the faith to believe that I could do it all over again because, despite anything else, he was going to be the most loved baby in the world. 

His love of literature and creative pursuits has touched the part of my soul that remembers knowing I could do whatever I wanted and be whomever I chose. He has made me believe again.

Photo by Samara Graham, 2010

My family is the cornerstone of my life. I am not a career woman. I don't think that there is anything that argues with genuine feminism in saying that I choose to focus on the raising of my family, both for economic reasons and for personal ones. 

But for many years, I felt so defined by their needs that I could not really answer the question, "What do you enjoy?'

Now I remember.

I love ridiculous humor.

I love the naked truth where others want to obfuscate.

I love the human capacity to transform.

I love music that shatters the peace and music that holds my aching soul in its arms and tells me it understands.

I love garden soil.

I love to write.

The Poetry of My Last Twenty-four Hours: Words that Cut to the Bone of Truth

I invite you to re-visit this post from last December as part of A Writer Weaves a Tale's Old-Post Resurrection Hop. Check Sandra out. She's a brilliant writer and her blog a way-station for talent.

Words that cut to the bone of truth, sawing away muscle and fat, leaving bare the skeleton of what it means to be human, in all its starkly bloody glory.

Words that take me to the heart of who I am and what I feel.

Photo by Mark

The Poetry of My Last Twenty-four Hours

5 AM. The pain of my fibromyalgia has woken me up to send ripples of flame that spread down my forearms and lick the web between each finger, bringing me moment by moment further from the sleep my body desperately needs. A deeper, hotter fire pours down the column of my spine and fills my sacrum, making it a vessel of aching cramp. A persistent nausea pulls at my insides. 

In the war between discomfort and exhaustion, discomfort has won. I will get up. I will write.

Photo by Jilly

2 PM. The baby that my arms still remember, who smelled of a fresh sweetness as bafflingly ambrosial as a morning bakery, the boy whose soft possibility touches the core of my longing to want good in the world, that boy is sobbing on my couch, having been physically and mentally wounded in his daily battle with Life. 

His cries feel like jagged glass, like punches to my stomach.

At this moment in time, his soul is a crushed tin can beneath the foot of the world. His body curls inward, protecting himself. He is a fetal image again, a sprouting bean, or something bent-maybe not yet broken. I catch my breath, and beg myself for the capacity to remember that this is just a moment in time that can pass. 

If I let myself live inside that strangled sob, inside that inward-bent body, I may soon be crushed again myself, as I was when I had to pass through Scylla and Charybdis to become a grown woman myself. But I will not let him pass through alone, if he could know someone is with him and that he is loved. 

Something is always torn and bloody when a child is birthed. New tears rend me as they grow and I let myself feel the disquiet of Life as it shapes the men they will become. Sometimes all I have to offer these children is an outstretched hand.

Photo by Jenny Downing

6 PM. My church community has gathered in the darkness of December around an elaborate double spiral of pine boughs in our icy church parking lot, to usher in the winter solstice. 

The planning for this has been halting, filled with confusion, miscommunication, and emotional exhaustion. Leading up to this moment, I have felt more than once like stepping away from the project. 

Community is never what you think it is. It is always unkempt, filled with unintended power struggles and accidental slights; with the tireless wars we launch daily in the practice of attempting to live together.

Chanting begins, led by teenagers with a chant they have learned at a youth con, "Spiraling into the center, the center of the web, we are the weavers, we are the woven ones, we are the dreamers, we are the dream..." The background is punctuated by the sounds of the reverse signal of a backhoe that is moving snow nearby into great useless dunes by the roadside. 

Our community-elders, young children, teenagers, adults are moving into the center of a spiral, holding tiny pine cones to drop into a fire as an act of letting go. Upon reaching the center, they receive a candle and place it where they wish among the boughs on the arm of the spiral leading out. I am directing a child on crutches in an icy parking lot, listening to a persistent beeping, but, more-so, I am enveloped by the intention of the ritual. 

I desperately need to let go. I need to leave the self I thought I was in the light of summer in that fire and walk out with a new self, strong enough to meet the challenges Life has chosen, in its dazzling randomness, for me to face. I will do this, even if I must do it while prodding a crippled child whom, unbeknownst to me, I will later learn has already fallen with his crutches on the ice and suffered a concussion.

Photo by Kristine Coblentz

"Return again. Return again. Return again. Return to the home of your soul. Return to who you are. Return to what you are. Return to where you are. Born and reborn again. Return again..."

The comfort of the truth of these words washes over me. Where sweet encouragement to cheer me would sour in my ears, the beauty of darkness juxtaposed with light, the Truth of Nature and of being human holds me like a child in a mother's arms, comforting me with reality.

Litany. In the greatest darkness. Response: The light is reborn. Out of winter's cold. The light is reborn. From our deepest fears. The light is reborn. When we most despair. The light is reborn.  The light is reborn. The light is reborn. 

To end the ritual is my part. I lead the crowd inside, where seven children, fourth grade to ninth, guide us all competently, confidently, and gorgeously in the act of welcoming in the four directions and putting the ritual to rest. 

They say, finally, these words that I have written for them:

"The wheel of the year spins inward toward dark and quiet, outward toward light and creation. Again and again, it spins, and our lives spin with it, through happy times and sad, new inspirations and times of letting go.

Our lives mirror the beauty of the turning of the wheel.

We hope you will stay with us for cider and social time and that you will take with you the collective light of this community into the dark places you must go this coming year, and use it to germinate your dreams." 

I am bursting with pride in my community. We are raising bold children who know beauty, who can lead, who can think. We have wisdom among our elders in Los Alamos that would be the envy of any convocation of sages. Our families are vibrant, seeking, and strong.

In this moment, it is worth it to be human in a community, to suffer through emails that I don't understand, to bake a dozen cookies while getting ready for work, to attend meetings at the end of exhausting days, to struggle with how to live in beloved community.

I think that it is worth it to love the poetry of dark and light, to love the shadows that play around the edges of our lives, for the depth that they add to living.

If I live with more pain because I take the time to see them, I say I live, too, with more beauty.

Photo by Patrick Kelly

 This song makes me catch my breath and remember.

Notes on photos: The first three photos are creative-commons licensed searchable images that I found on Flickr. The fourth is a photo taken by my incredible, inspiring friend Kristine Coblentz at the Solstice ritual last night. She should also be credited with taking a huge leadership role in creating that ritual and having it be what it is. Her vision inspires me. The fifth photo was taken by me of my son Devin at our church's UU Nativity Pageant last Sunday, when he was a sheepishly smiling Caesar Augustus. The last photo is used with permission by my talented friend Patrick Kelly, whose gorgeous photographs can be found at http://photos.pmkelly.com/. Go look at them.

I am a Cylon Hybrid. And two more things I can do better than you.

Today's #ReverbBroads11 prompt: What are three things you are better at than most people? via Catie at catiecake.wordpress.com

This would be easy, except that, in order to maintain your interest and avoid repeating myself, I should probably stay away from the topics of collecting animals, making lists, abusing caffeine and making wisecracks. Which doesn't actually leave a whole lot else to write about. 

And I'm not sure that exuberant fertility can be considered an actual skill set.

There remain a few stray items remain to consider.

Item #1:

I am the human central computer which powers my family. And I do this way better than my husband and kids, who all have ADHD and can't find their own socks. Perhaps you'll be more impressed if I say that I even do this better than most mere mortal mothers that I know. (The ones who do yoga, meditate and sit peacefully, watching their kids playing.)

Let me elaborate.

Have you ever seen Battlestar Galactica? I am talking here about the 2004 version, not the old, irrelevant one that I have not seen. On the series, the Cylon base ships are powered by special Cylons known as Hybrids which are "specially constructed as living computers that manage the autonomous functions of the basestar, including navigation, propulsion (especially faster-than-light) and climate control." 

I am like that, except without as many tubes.

At any given time, with or without a migraine or sudden attack of fibromyalgia symptoms, I am collecting data and monitoring the status of my family's needs and conditions as to school lunches, long-term projects, extracurricular activities and need for transport thereto, immediate need for clean socks and underwear, dinner menus, shopping lists, prescription refills, and emotional health, as well as a host of other functions. And like Hybrids, I can also do this even from a bath. 

At our house, my husband is the computer genius, but I'm the computer.

Item #2:

I can find deeper meaning in anything. And I can do it without even subscribing to conventional religious beliefs-another one of my superpowers! 

Other people just want to figure out how to make class lists for religious education at our church. I want to figure out what is standing in our way of fulfilling every child's deepest need for authentic religious education. Other people want to buy groceries. I want to discuss what would have to happen to feed everyone in the world while preserving the environment. 

Other people just want to be happy. But I just want to be authentic. (Me and Jean-Paul.)

Item #3:

I can find what's wrong in any given situation. It's a talent, really. 

I'm not an Eeyore. I'm don't typically engage in that kind of maudlin repining one associates with depressives and angsty teenagers. I mean I find what is actually wrong. If you want a critical but empathetic analysis of your relationship skills, I'm your girl. Want to know what is wrong with communication in your organization? Just ask. Why can't you lose weight? You get the idea.

In other words, I'm your worst nightmare. A rabidly organized idealist with an annotated list of your shortcomings. Merry Christmas. 

Oh crap. This is another one of those "I think this is piss" moments.

Image credits:

I stole all of these images from Facebook memes that came through my stream and internet searches for Battlestar Galactica. So sue me.

Today all you get is this buffalo.

So, I just came back from Tucson, Arizona. I didn't tell you before I left, so that you wouldn't break into my house and steal all my dirty laundry and vintage garage sale furniture while I was gone. No hard feelings.

This is southern New Mexico as seen through the cracked windshield of my 2000 Dodge Caravan. It doesn't look much better without the crack and thumbprints, actually.

I went to Tucson with my husband and kids to be present at my Grandpa Hy's funeral. He died, at the age of 101, on the Ides of March, but we waited til as many family members as possible could be together to put him to rest as befit the final remaining member of his generation, and then stay to spend Thanksgiving together.

My Grandpa Hy, a force of Nature.

Anyway, the story of this trip has three parts:

In Part 1, my family and I get ready to travel and then take a twelve hour road trip to Tucson, during which time I have ample time to reflect on how truly weird we all are.

In Part 2, we say a final goodbye to Grandpa. I get to know this part of my family better. This is sort of a trip to the Homeland for me. This generates many reflections on Why I Am the Way that I Am.

In Part 3, I visit Fourth Avenue near the University of Arizona and decide that my son can go to college there because they have cool trash cans. Wait. They are really cool. This is a really good way to help your children make important decisions about their future.

Then we drive back through some of the most godforsaken parts of America, and arrive home again, after being fascinated by very strange statues in the middle of Nowhere.


So, there are my next three blog posts. But today, all you get is this buffalo, who, despite being made of pure silver, is destined to spend his life behind a chain link fence in Hatch, New Mexico, overshadowed by a giant man who is about to eat an RV.

The economy has really been hard on a lot of us.

Personal Credo for My Building Your Own Theology Class

credit NASA Goddard Photo and Video

Building Your Own Theology is an adult education course offered in Unitarian Universalist churches. Since our denomination does not have any test of faith or required beliefs and we covenant to affirm and promote a free and responsible search for truth and meaning, this class is designed to lead one through the kinds of questions and explorations that would lead you to be able to determine what it is that you personally believe about Life, Ultimate Reality (God), human beings and what is right, and then to take the step of expressing this in the form of a credo. I took this class this fall and then was sort of lovingly prodded into actually reading the damn credo I wrote to our whole congregation, along with one other brave soul. I did that today. After all that work, I decided I should at least be able to steal what I wrote for my blog.

Here it is.
(click the link above for audio podcast, which includes another speaker, T.J. Ulrich, who is fully worth listening to in his own right)

I decided to take the latest Building Your Own Theology class not because I didn’t have a theology already of sorts, already, but because the struggle to fully articulate it has plagued me for the last couple of years.

In the class, we did a lot of reflection on where we have been religiously at different points in our lives and what we choose to reject and keep from all of that experience. I was struck that, there are lots of other people whom I know for which anything religious has seemed tangential to their inner lives. For myself, as long as I can remember, I have been engaged with religious and spiritual questions. I have developed theological ideas from my youth in a Unitarian Universalist church, from a young adulthood as a practicing Pagan, from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and years lived as a sober person, from multiple seminars that I have taken as an adult, from Bill Maher, from the Flying Spaghetti Monster people, and now from my adulthood in a UU church.

Not all of these ideas work well together.

Photo by gb_packards

Since I have experience of the unique benefits each perspective has to offer, I have found it challenging to coherently express the sum of my religious beliefs. Often, I find it easier to reject an idea that is offered up. I wanted to be able to speak in the affirmative.

The basic problem for me has been that I require a spiritual life. For my happiness and emotional well-being, everything in my experience tells me that I need to feel part of something larger than myself, and that this something needs to be not just a social movement, not just a set of ethical principles, but something which can connect my inner life with my outer life, and ultimately, with Everything. This is a problem because I just can’t accept the easy answers. As a matter of integrity, I can’t believe something just because it would make me happier to do so or because others believe it. It has to make sense. It has to provide direction. It has to work under any circumstances. I guess that’s my UU breeding.

Periodically, someone challenges me about why I call myself an atheist and not an agnostic. I guess my answer is that agnosticism seems to me to work only if the question of God is not terribly important to you. To me the question is paramount because every day I wake up into a world in which, either there is a Creator who has a plan for my life, wherein my main job is to do good things and trust in the unfolding of that plan, or I wake up into a world where there is no justice that we don’t strive for ourselves, where suffering is not offered up as part of a menu of spiritual refinement but is simply, suffering.

In this second world, I have enormous responsibility for how things go. My actions and ethics would be entirely different given either of those two worlds. So, for myself, I have to make a choice about God, if not forever than at least to go forward with. While others may say God and mean “Universe” or “Ultimate Meaning” or “Interconnected Web of Life”, I find it distracting, like saying “cheeseburgers” every time you mean “houses”.

So I needed to articulate the path that I am already on, a path which offers me a great deal of fulfillment and meaning and which has seen me through many dark days. What follows is my attempt to express it in the form of a credo.

I believe that to be human is to constantly encounter Paradox.

The consciousness that I have developed as I gained the ability to produce language tells me that I am separate and whole unto myself, with unique thoughts, perspectives and traits. In fact, my individuality is what makes me who I am—the uniquely valued wife of my husband, daughter of my parents, mother to my three boys. Yet, at the same time, I am just one iteration of an evolving Universe fully beyond my understanding.

My bones, skin and brain are particles of stardust that have existed since the moment Existence ever was, and will take another form after me, time and time again. I will someday exist as matter that no one will recognize, in memories of others that tell only part or half the truth of my story. No matter who I am or was at the end of my days, one day I will surely be part of everything, something unrecognizable.

As part of the fundamental toolbox of my humanity, I can create ideals of justice and compassion out of the thin air of imagination and declaration. I can nurture, heal, transform, give meaning, lend comfort. And, inescapably, I will hurt, self-deceive, and participate in systems that bring death and suffering to fellow humans, fellow animals. My instinct to personally survive, to garner resources, to bring the world as it is into accordance with the world as I need to see it, sometimes wins out over the possibility of Beauty or Compassion or Wisdom, no matter how dear I hold these ideals. I think that we are unwise when we place unwarranted faith in human nature to be anything other than as it is, but I find in the compassion and understanding that I can have for that nature, a peace with the world and a way to practice love.

I think human beings create a concept of God to allow them to connect in some way with that part of themselves that is an expression of what is possible and beautiful, that part of ourselves in which we can quietly find peace and acceptance, that part of our DNA that reacts with love and recognition to all other living things. I do not think that there is a God that is sentient, in any sense larger than that the concept encompasses the sentience of those creatures who happen to have it. I do not think that there exists a God that has a plan of any kind, that the Universe is travelling in a predictable direction, or that inherent fairness from a source larger than humanity will win the day.

While thinking these things may lend comfort to me, and has in the past, I find that wrestling with the task that a masterless Universe presents me with makes me a better person, a person who cannot just sigh to myself in the face of suffering that “God simply has a plan that we don’t understand” and turn away, but am called upon to lend a hand or face the consequences of my inaction.

The ethical creed that arises for me out of my understanding of humanity and Ultimate Reality makes it necessary for me to question everything, to be wary of any and all absolutes that I am offered. I can offer Wisdom in the form of my unique point of view, and so I try to. I can bring Compassion and so I actively strive to bring compassion to my relations with other people and creatures. I can create reality with the words I speak and so I conduct myself with Integrity to whatever extent I can muster.

In a world that can prove no absolute truth of any kind, where our understandings of the machinations of nature are a moving target, where absolute ethics exist only in the form of societal agreements fortified by the imperative that we survive as social creatures, I still find Beauty to be everywhere and human beings most beautiful of all. I see this as the unconditional love that a family has for all of its members. The world and human beings are deeply flawed and imperfect and I love them because they are mine and I live with them. I know no better way to live here than to love the world, just as it is, as it seems, as it spins out its meaningless, gorgeous threads that make up the tapestry of history, and in which we all find our own pattern there to see.

I will end with the thoughts of Ysaye Barnwell of Sweet Honey in the Rock, who has written in her beautiful song, “We Are”:

"For each child that’s born
A morning star rises
And sings to the universe
Who we are.




We are our grandfather’s dreamings.
We are the breath of our ancestors.
We are the spirit of God.




We are Mothers of Courage
Fathers of time
Daughters of dust
Sons of great vision.

We are
Sisters of Mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life and
The builders of nations.

We are
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace and
The wisdom of ages.”
We are our grandmother’s prayers.

The photos of the cactus wren and the skeleton were taken in Tucson, Arizona by my brilliant son, Devin Cantua. November 2011

Warning to Sith-Prone Readers

Have you already learned the right way of thinking and living and now you are content only to remind yourself of this, and share this good news with other people? Do you believe that what is most important is that we place our faith in Jesus/Science /Nature and not allow it to be tested by events, alternate points of view or objective reality? Then you will hate my blog. Remember, only a Sith deals in absolutes! That means that if you are so very certain about right and wrong, you are probably a Sith. However, I do intend to post recipes that can be appreciated even by Sith-prone people.