Arms of Eden


Ah. There's so much, and I feel so marginally capable of communicating it.

I am listening to this over and over again. I don't know why.

this is my home, this is my only home
this is the only sacred ground that i have ever known
and should i stray in th dark night alone
rock me goddess in the gentle arms of eden


I'm reading a diary written in 1929. It's the journal of Hazel's (my stepfather's mom) mother, Dora. She kept journals from 1929 all the way into the early 70's, and my mom is transcribing them and sending them out one year at a time. Mostly, she talks about the (endless) farm work, the local people, who visits, etc. Occaisonally she come out with something amazing, like her March 31 observation: "Turned the new rooster out today and he seems master of the situation." At the time of her first entry, Hazel, her eldest, is 19. Her other four children are each two years apart all the way down to the baby, Hugh, who is 11. She's a woman with her hands full. And she's so competent and seems so...satisfied. It blows my mind.

And then I think about her journal as compared to my ramblings here, and I am so embarrassed. How, in just a few generations, did we get from tough, self-sufficient, satisfied Dora to whiny, narcisstic, spoiled, overmedicated me? And what kind of good, hard-working, Scottish-Dutch peasant stock am I showing, constantly depressed and crabby and unhealthy? Always in bed, always taking a pill, always making problems from nothing? I'm an embarrassment. Seriously.

I am a college-educated, well-employed white female in 21st century America. People don't get much luckier than me. It is definitely time to re-evaluate.

*"Gentle Arms Of Eden", 2000 Dave Carter / Dave Carter Music (BMI)

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April 2012

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