"I've seen people doing it for years and never stop it, I sill tried it"...

Some very refreshing honesty here, one of the most worth-watching of the list.

How long should a person take methadone? (+playlist)

I highly recommend this youtube channel. this doctor has a great deal to say that will help so many people and help society at large!

Detox is 20% physical and 80% mental

When I am working, I don't think about it

A Lament for Unlamented Innocent Blood

I had very rude awakening today. On some level, I knew that embracing nature and living closer to nature was not guaranteed to drive evil out a person, and cause them to understand the sanctity of life. However, it was still a painful slap in the face when in my permaculture class - which is always going on about welcoming life of all sorts and all forms, and not using it's convenience and usefulness to us to determine whether it has a right to life or has value - was telling of a holistic method for abortion. Someone came to him pregnant and said she didn't believe in birth control, but did not want to have any more kids, so the teacher has planted pennyroyal in his garden specifically to make this person miscarry. He said "I'm not saying you should do this," but he wanted to make sure all us women knew that if we "load up on pennyroyal, it will cause you to have a miscarriage. I'm just saying there's an herb for everything." Yea, and if you don't like somebody, I'm sure there are herbs you could give them to get them out of your way too, and I'm not sating you should do that either, there's just an herb for everything. Including all kinds of murder, and probably rape too. I cringe to think of it. Anything can become evil if its used wrongly, even mother nature, as I was hit over the head with about an hour ago. That really messed up my day!Murder is everywhere. Bloodshed is all around. There is only one way to peace, and that is through genuinely making the Prince of peace lord of your life. Where in nature do you see mothers seeking ways to cast their young? if we are supposed to observe nature and imitate natural patterns, what place does abortion have in our lives?It has no place. Intentionally causing death of our of spring has no place in our lives if we celebrate life. When he said that, and shared that information to equip all of us women to kill our children with herbs, it felt like there was nothing sacred or safe left in the world. No "holy ground" like they have in the Highlander mythos. And maybe in the natural there isn't any safe haven, but that is not going to cause me to give up. I still have the Holy Spirit with me wherever I must go. (S)He was with Corrie ten Boom in the Nazi concentration camp, and none of that violence was strong enough to drive away Corrie's Shelter. Murders going on, and people feeling the need to get the how-tos out there in case I or any other woman would like to do likewise, is not going to take away the Presence. The Presence will destroy the evil that is going on there, and bring healing, but not if God's children refuse to stay in the middle of it to bring that healing and hopefully that corrective influence.

I almost quit the class over that, but I didn't because I need that information to save lives, and to demonstrate that all this killing is not necessary or good for anyone. Those who live by the sword will die by it, as Jesus said. There is no defense in shedding innocent blood, no reason for killing our children, other people far away, and people who have lived here longer. 

We are fallen, and our fallen state effects us whether we are out trying to build and use chemical weapons or sitting at home trying to reduce our impact on the environment, leave more for other people, and practicing permaculture. There is nowhere in the world where innocent blood does not cry from the ground, and there is no movement, political or other wise, whose hands are not filthy with blood. If they oppose chemical birth control, they'll overdose on penny royal and kill the child that way. If they oppose abortion as homicide and know that life begins at conception, they support corporations that annihilate whole tribes by destroying all the resources the people have. Our polarized  andevidently demon-controlled political system has it set up that way. "God gave us this, he blessed us. We are better than other people. We deserve what we have, we earned it. Never mind that life was lost to provide it. They did not work hard enough to earn what was theirs to begin with. We are the only god-fearing nation that ever was, and therefore we get the goods and the rest of the world can either find a way to earn it back or just die. It's not our problem" "I don't want a baby, and I answer to no one but myself. This child is no child because I said so, and I also say it will die. Butt out of my business, unless you are going to help me do it" The justification varies. The methods vary. What does not vary is rebellious flesh, carnal nature that wants to determine its own path apart from the ways of El Shaddai and Adonai.

God, there is none like you. The rulers and even the non-rulers of the earth claim to be gods, they try to act as gods, but they are not gods. Creation reflects and testifies of your glory, nature proclaims your nature, but it is not You. There is only one You and while you are everywhere, and everything speaks of you, everything is still not you.

You are the only one who must be called master, you are the only real source of life. The evil in us blinds us to you, because it does not want to see you. It wants your place and your glory. It wants to be wise and all knowing, it wants to be the one who says what is right, and is always right. It wants to live with no authentic judge. It wants to destroy you and it wants to control you, or be you, all at the same time. But you have a right to judge, and you are right when you do judge. Right now, you have already judged sin, and have chosen for the moment not to judge us. I thank you for your mercy.

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Holy spirit only you convict and convince of sin, and your conviction is the first step to accepting your mercy. I ask lord that you will convict, and that you will convince of true right and true wrong. I ask that you will show me how to be of use to you. To let you do your job and to still be the teacher of truth that you want me to be. In Jesus name, amen.

Throwing Down Both Gauntlets: Pt 2

 Thank you for reading the second chapter of Throwing Down Both Gauntlets. The name comes from the adage "throwing down the gauntlet" which means ready for a figurative fight. Throwing Down Both Gauntlets is to denote the intensity of Bronte's determination in the face of unimaginable odds. My research on life in Haiti has bred respect in me for its people. I read "But isn't Haiti Dangerous?" a blog by two charity workers who live there, and it drastically altered what I expected to find in this learning and writing process, and what I was willing to look for. I hope you'll take the time to read it too. It is posted on the Polysha Foundation's Facebook page as well, so you can look for it and other goodies there, too. Enjoy! :)

Throwing Down Both Gauntlets,
Continued . . .
           The pain was welling up again, and Bronte fought down the tears, Not NOW! She shouted within herself, I cannot show weakness now. No way, not at all. She took slow, deep breaths of the putrid air. Some vagabonds had evidently relieved themselves near here. Something had also died nearby, by the odor of it. The stench was terrible, and Bronte was frightened. She remembered the eight precious faces staring at her after dinner last night, raising no questions, no doubts. They were all completely convinced she could do as she said. She had to keep going, she had to.

          And she would.

          Suddenly, a large, calloused hand grabbed her arm, startling her. She turned, gasping, and saw a tall, kind-faced man smiling down at her. He was of average build, except for his height, and looked about forty or so. He had a birthmark, an indentation running down one side of his face, shaped like the blade of a scythe. He wore a white shirt and faded green trousers. “Let me walk with you, ma'am,” he said, “It isn't good to be out here alone. What is your name?”

          “Bronte,” she replied, returning his smile, “I am going to look for work in the factories.”

          “Well, hello Bronte. My name is Patrick. I know of two or three people that are said to be looking for seamstresses. Can you sew?”
           “Yes! Certainly!” She reached up to fix her kerchief. The wind had suddenly come up and attempted to blow it right off of her head.

           “I am looking for job openings myself. I work at Permashelter, but there is talk of a layoff, very soon.” Bronte was moved for him. Seydou had been beside himself when there was talk of a layoff at his company. He had barely slept for weeks. It was always hard on all the men and their families to hear such news. Sometimes not knowing was even worse than knowing that you were going to loose your job.
           “Oh! I am sorry to hear that." Bronte put her hand to her mouth in distress, "Do you have children?”

           “Yes,” Patrick replied proudly, “Three. Two boys and a girl.”
           “I have four boys and four girls. They all attend school, the ones that are old enough,” Bronte's chest stuck out with pride, “And I am going to keep them there.”
           They began to walk together, toward a clothing factory about twelve more blocks away. Tents were everywhere. At times, they had to excuse themselves and step over individuals reposing on the edge of the street.
           “What part of town do you live in?” Patrick inquired, as they passed the collapsed remains of a large apartment complex.
           “On the North side, between Mon Repos 44 and Mon Repos 42. How about you?”

           “I live on the East side, off of Therlonge and North Dupre. I'm just just a bit to the west of the intersection.”

           “Oh! I know where that is!” Bronte's eyes lit up, “My husband's family used to live near there, just a few blocks out.” The wind was to the back of them now, making her kerchief stick up behind her head and billow strangely. At least it helped speed them along.

           They soon found themselves at the facilities of the Webster, Webster and Cohen Ltd. clothing production plant. Patrick applied for warehouse work in case his position at Permashelter was eliminated. The pay wouldn't be as much, but if worse came to worse, it would be much better than nothing. Bronte applied to be a seamstress. Her experience would put her legal minimum pay-rate at about 25 Gourdes, or $0.75 USD, per hour. A meager salary, to say the least, but a start.

           “I hope your job at Permashelter proves to be steady,” she said sincerely, adjusting her kerchief again as they exited the building together.

           “And I wish you the best of luck in your seamstress work,” Patrick responded emphatically. “By the way, did you embroider that beautiful orchid on your blouse yourself?”

           “Yes,” she blushed, “I finished it a few weeks ago.”

           “You are remarkably skilled!” Patrick's eyes were wide, “If you would, please write down your address. I will tell the people in my church about your abilities. Maybe someone will know where you can pick up some extra work.”

           Bronte was so touched, she had to put in considerable effort to control her emotions. “Thank you,” she said again, keeping most of the tremble out of her voice.

           Patrick's smile was comforting. Bronte was very thankful she had found a new friend.

* * *

          It had been an eventful day. On the way home, Bronte had stopped at a couple of other clothing companies and applied. She had an interview scheduled, three days away, at the Yin Yeung Cho Corporation. 

          It was almost time for the other children to come home when Bronte stepped across her threshold with a satisfied sigh. It was wonderful to be home and she looked forward to being surrounded by her children again.The Lamarre's house had no lights. When the sun was up, the house was lit by opening the door, and the kitchen window also gave light to prepare food by. Little Guerda's hair was all in braids, courtesy of Fredeline's exceptional skill. Ritha's hair was, at the moment, amusing. One side was in braids, some of which were tied together in preparation for an elaborate up-do, like her younger sister had. Some of the braids were shaking loose from their bonds, making a big, bouncy lump on the side of her head which flopped about as she ran and jumped and danced around the little house. The other side of her hair had several sections separated and brushed straight out in preparation for braiding. Because of gravity and Ritha's rambunctiousness, though, these were now looking quite wilted. All except for one that is – it stuck straight out the side of her smiley little head like a tenacious black spike. Fredeline was waving a towel frantically at the cook stove.

          “What's wrong?” Bronte inquired.

          “The grease caught fire,” Fredeline replied, beating at the oven with the towel. 

          Bronte darted over to her dear friend's side so quickly it seemed she had wings and flew there. The fire was almost out already. It had not spread far. Bronte turned her attention back to Guerda and Ritha. Just then, Fredeline's son, Toussaint, started crying loudly. 

          “What's the matter, little Toussaint?” Bronte asked in her most indulgent, cutesy voice, slowing her words for greater effect. Little eighteen month old Toussaint continued to wail as if he had not heard anything. Bronte picked him up and held him. After a few moments, he calmed down. Toussaint had short, fuzzy hair that had taken unusually long to come in, and large eyes that were usually bright with joy and interest. He wore an orange shirt and nothing else.

          Fredeline came back from the oven, wiping her hands. “The fire's out,” she said, sounding tired.

* * *

          Over dinner, which today consisted of rice and a few vegetables, Fredeline and Bronte did most of the talking. They were discussing how to grow various crops together in the small strip of very poor soil the Lamarre's had by their house. They discussed the feasibility of different crops: apricots, avocado, banana, cantaloupe, plantain, pomegranate, potato, pumpkin, cassava, beans, guava, papaya, Plate de Haiti Tomato, and yam. Fredeline said it was ok to put the little garden in near the tree. “You need pigeon peas, badly. The soil here is in such bad shape, like mine was. They put something into the soil, called nitrogen, and this can heal the soil so it can grow food for you better. You can grow them with the beans, and it will help the soil and maybe even grow the beans better. If you get the vine-type of Plate de Haiti Tomato, it can climb the beans and the peas.”

          “Is there anything I can do to help?” Emanuel asked, “I'm strong, I can lift things, even if it's heavy.”

          “We will need your strength, Emanuel, a lot. Especially in the beginning. I will explain your situation to some of my friends, and we will bring you a strong shovel, a pick if we can get one. The ground has to be broken to let seeds in.

           “The soil can barely feed the tree. Look at it.” Elsie said, sounding mildly frustrated.

           “The tree will begin to do better when the soil gets better. The Peas will make the soil better. It takes time. You will get a crop the first year, but not a big one and it may not be good to eat it, if chemicals from the cars on the street have gotten on it. The peas will take the chemicals out over the winter months. When we do it like that, we call it a cover crop. Cover crops heal the soil by taking out the evil things in it and putting in good things.”

           “What can I do to help?” Elsie asked, as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. This started a cacophony of the same inquiry from the most of the other children, which in turn brought wails of discontent from little Guerda. Bronte took Guerda outside to calm her, trusting Fredeline to be able to delegate tasks, since she was the only one who had a clue what they were going to be doing.

          She looked out across the narrow street, crowded with small, saggy houses and tents, and the intermittent brick ruins standing out garishly among them. She wondered how this new life she had to make would work. At times, it seemed crazy to hope, but hope was what kept the world of good people turning. Evil of every sort grew out of giving up, and Bronte was determined never to do that.

Throwing Down Both Gauntlets: Pt. 1

When I read the back story of the Polysha Foundation, my heart warmed and at the same time it broke. It inspired me to write this story. This is not about Yves and Sharon Polycarpe, but their story did inspire this one. This is a work of fiction which is loosely based on the true story of Yves Polycarpe's family, found on the About Us page of the Polysha Foundation's website. I have done my best, through research and looking at numerous pictures, to make Bronte Lamarre's story resemble that of a woman in the same situation in Haiti today. Information on the daily lives of the poor are hard to come by, and where necessary I let my imagination lead the way. I recommend anyone moved by this story visit their page, and join the "Winner's Circle," and also visit and like them on Facebook. This story is not to make anyone feel guilty, but to see just how much can be overcome by the human heart if we choose never to give up, like Mr. Yves Polycarpe's amazing mother.
The links in the story show you images, or at times videos, which I used to determine what my character's world was really like. They also serve as illustrations of the story. Enjoy!! 

          The sun shown hot and harsh in the arid afternoon. In the distance, the mountains were shrouded in haze. A few scraggly trees reached desperately for the sky out of the parched earth. Bronte Lamarre was hanging clothes in front of her family's house in Carrefour, Haiti. The house was about 500 square feet, the roof and much of the rest of the house sagged badly, like many homes in the Lemarre's neighborhood. The family was very thankful the house was at least still standing, as many homes nearby had collapsed in the earthquake and had never been rebuilt. Their humble building had once been white, but time had taken its toll. Now, it could best be described as gray. Her very faded blue kerchief fluttered a little in the slight breeze. Sweat beaded on her brows and dripped down the her cheeks, where it mingled with the tears she had been trying, with intermittent success, to hold back. A sturdy woman of about 5'9, her face appeared wise and unusually hard for her mere 31 years. Bronte had already born eight children. The youngest, sixteen month old little Guerda, waddled over and tugged at her mothers skirts, wanting to be held. I can't let them see me cry, Bronte thought, They need me to show strength now, they need to believe it is going to be all right.

          It had been two days since her husband, Seydou's funeral. He had been making gravel when an avalanche was triggered. Seydou had been killed instantly, as he was the nearest one to the rock wall they were turning into gravel. She tried hard not to think about it, about whether or not it hurt, or whether or not it was anyone's fault. None of that did any good, and knowing the answers would never change anything. There was no way for her to know, really, and those thoughts made her anxious. Instead, she concentrated very hard on the clothes she was washing. Squeezing out the water, rubbing them together, pressing as hard as she could. She squeezed Emanuel's work trousers until her knuckles paled, gritting her teeth. She was almost done, and her fingers were starting to get sore. Despite her best efforts, tears began to pour down her cheeks again.

          Little Guerda started screaming suddenly, and Bronte jumped. “Stevsin! Webby! Ee-wsie!” Guerda shouted, toddling off toward the road. “Oh,” Bronte sighed, relieved. She scooped up her excited infant to keep her out of the street, and called over her shoulder to her dearest friend, Fredeline, who was in the kitchen beginning preparations for dinner. “The other children are home!” Guerda's elated shrieks lifted Bronte's heart a little, making it easier to retrain her tears. At the door, they saw the Lamarre Brood coming down the street. 
          Twelve-year-old Webster was carrying a big stick like a staff, swinging it back and forth in his right hand. His school-buy shorts, which were a bit short and tight, had a large tear in the left leg. How did he do that? Bronte wondered, more concerned for Webster than for the cost of the thread she would sew them with. Her eldest, Emanuel, looked serene, as usual. He stood tall resolute as he approached, like a king. He carried his worn pack with his school things in it. On closer observation, Bronte noticed he was carrying three other packs too. She wondered why.

          Stevenson, Elsie, and Leila were walking slowly toward home without their packs. Elsie and Leila had flowers in their hands. Ten-year-old Leila's bunch was at least twice the size of her sister's. Webster kept reaching out with his stick, holding it behind his younger brother to guide his wobbling gait and keep him on the road. He was not hitting him, though Stevenson's cheeks were tear-stained. They were bringing flowers they had picked along the road. Such flowers made Bronte sneeze.

          She suspected they were not for her, but for Seydou's gravesite.

* * *

          Bronte and Fredeline were in the house, at the table by the home's one window, discussing what the family should do next and cutting up vegetables. The children were all playing or doing homework. Fredeline had brought the vegetables from her garden, as well as some seeds for the Lamarre family to plant. She had attended a lesson for women's empowerment several months ago, when her husband abandoned her with their young son. She had learned about seed-saving there. “I have more if you need them,” Fredeline was saying, wiping her long, slender hand across her high, sweaty brow. A tall woman, almost as tall as Seydou had been, and so slim she looked almost frail, Fredeline had been Bronte's best friend since they were little girls. They had learned to cook and sew together, and played games together. They had been in each other's weddings, of which Fredeline's had proved to be a mistake. She adjusted her kerchief, “I have only one child to look after. You have eight.” Tears hung in Bronte's eyes, the pain was welling up again. Good thing it was only Fredeline here to see. “Thank you,” she said, tears trickling down her weathered face, “What would I ever do without friends like you?”

          “Don't mention it,” Fredeline said, waving her hand in front of her face for emphasis, “It's what girlhood friends are for. You would do it for me. Here, let me finish these for you. You rest for a few minutes, before you and your kids have to have your talk.”

* * *

          Over a dinner of rice and pork, prepared mostly by Fredeline, with some “help” from four-year old little Ritha, Bronte told her family the plans she had for the future. The children gazed at her silently, intently. She knew this was hard on them. They sat around the table in order of their birth. Emanuel sat beside his mother, on the left. His expression unreadable except for the veins showing in his eyes. A mere thirteen years old, he was already almost as tall as his father had been. Webster was fidgety, as usual. The exact opposite of his older brother, and nearly as tall, he was the nearest thing Bronte had to a “problem child.” His grades were usually average, though sometimes they slipped a little. It was not because he was less intelligent, it was because he was less interested in his studies.

          Leila the ten-year-old, was slightly over-emotional at times. She made things more dramatic than they had to be, in Bronte's opinion at least. Sometimes this trait made life in the Lamarre house more interesting and fun, sometimes it made things harder than necessary. Little Stephane, age two-and-a-half, sat on Leila's lap, looking around inquisitively. He was too young to fully grasp what was going on, but he knew that daddy was not coming home again. It had taken a while for him to “get” that, and he had been deeply upset for about two days. This was the first day he seemed to be back to normal. His large brown eyes looked around with interest. He had nothing on but his training pants. Elsie, who was eight, sat across from the pair, holding her little brother Stevenson's hand. Six-year old Stephenson was no longer crying, but his eyes were still quite red. His school-boy shorts were covered with dust that was going to be a challenge to get clean by morning. Ritha sat beside him, smiling as usual, too young to fully understand what faced her family right now. On Bronte's lap, little Guerda slept soundly. She was too young to have any clue what was up, and Bronte was thankful. It would be much easier to discuss plans with the others if the baby was sleeping.

          “Alright, first of all, I want you all to know that we are not giving upon your schooling – that goes for all of you. Education is the pathway to prosperity, and in no way will I ever take any of you off of it.

          “I am going tomorrow to look for work. Fredaline is coming over with her son to take care of Ritha and Guerda. When you get home from school, we will be adding to our garden to try and grow more food. Fredeline plans to stay and help. She says she also has some extra seed and knows some ways to grow more food in less space. Now, I want you on your best behavior. She has walked along way to help us today, and is going to do it again tomorrow. Any questions?”

          Eight of the most beautiful faces in the world stared back at her, silently. No one asked anything. With that, they began their dinner.

* * *

          The sun beat down on Bronte's head as she walked to the manufacturing district, looking for work. Dust hung in the air, coloring all she could see a pale, golden brown. She wore her best pair of blue jeans, and a slightly lighter blue shirt. She had embroidered a flower on the collar, it had taken her almost a month. The air smelled vaguely of garbage as she got further from her house. As a lower-class, uneducated woman, she had few prospects, and none of them paid well. She would probably need more than one. If someone would hire her on for sewing, she could probably do that on off hours from any job in the factory.

          Occasionally, sounds and smells from cafes in several locks away tickled her nose, making her mouth water. She remembered the unseasoned pork and vegetables she had eaten last night, prepared lovingly by her very dear friend, and she was thankful. The people eating in those restaurants did not have so much love in their food. The cooks would not serve them for free, or hold their hand while they wept. Though she was indeed very poor, Bronte Lamarre was also unfathomably rich.
          It was a dangerous trek, walking by herself across town. Bronte's somewhat exceptional size would not help much, either. Most men were at least her size and still much stronger. The majority of the men in her area were decent, fiercely protective and law-abiding, like her beloved Seydou. Nevertheless, there were also many evil men in Carrefour, and all it would take was one. There were a few women she knew of who had been infected with AIDS in an assault. Not a hazard to take lightly.

          She plodded along, eying every corner and every empty doorway with apprehension. There were many people camping on the roadside, homeless. Bronte and others had always helped when they could.  Seydou had repaired their family's house with a group of his friends, who had in turn fixed their own houses with his and Emanuel's help. Right now, she was not able to do that. She was in the season of receiving help right now, as they were, but her needs more more forward-looking while the needs of the homeless around her now were more immediate.

          The pain was welling up again. How she missed her beloved Seydou! She fought down the tears, Not NOW! She shouted within herself, I cannot show weakness now. No way, not at all. She took slow, deep breaths of the putrid air. Some vagabonds had evidently relieved themselves in an alley near here. Something had also died nearby, by the odor of it. The stench was terrible, and Bronte was frightened. She remembered the eight precious faces staring at her after dinner mast night, raising no questions, no doubts. They were completely convinced that she could do what she said. She had to keep going, she had to.

          And she would.