Posts (page 2)

My main blog, Tales From The Burning Prairie, has recently seen a plague of spam. Among the body-building, dog-training, and male-enhancing spam, I noticed several that were apparently written by Janosz Poha. I didn't think about preserving these most excellent examples of Engrish, and am now regretting my haste in unloading them.

To make up for these lost gems, I am starting a contest for comments left for my main blog. Today is August 1st and the contest will run the entire month. The rules are simple: go to my site-Tales From The Burning Prairie, choose any story, read it and leave a relevant comment written in Engrish.

I reserve the right to approve or disapprove based on content. Judging will commence September 1 and the results will be announced no later than September 15, 2007. The winner will be announced on Twitter, Vox, and my main blog. The winning entry will be published in its very own blog post, here on Vox and on Tales From The Burning Prairie. Other than my sincere thanks and a sense of accomplishment, the only prize will be the sure knowledge that you have injected a little humor into an all-too-humorless world.

Good Luck! Make me laugh! 

I just finished ready my August Allure cover to cover. It is the only fashion magazine I subscribe to, although I am not above sneaking a guilty peek at Cosmo in the waiting room, mind you. But that is not a magazine I would want anyone to see at my house; I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong ideas about me, that's also the reason I don't take Good Housekeeping. Must be my upbringing; you can take the girl out of the Baptist Church, but you can't take the baptist out of the girl, it is my other curse. I like reading about hair styles, makeup, perfume, fashion, shoes they don't make in my size; I just don't want to have to wade through something titled, "75 Things to do with your toes that drive men wild", or the like.  Hey, if you like that kind of thing it's fine, but I don't think men ever even notice our feet unless we make them look at our shoes. I don't even mind the articles about diets and cosmetic procedures.
But this month's issue seemed laser-focused on the only two aspects of my appearance I give more than 2 seconds to-hairstyle and lipstick.

These two things, hairstyles and lipstick, are so iconic, so entrenched, so utterly feminine that they refuse to be usurped by ideas about mere gender equality. In fact, I see nothing incongruous about beauty and feminism. Not that we should all strive to conform ourselves to someone else's perception of beauty, but it is when we slip below our own personal threshold of beauty that we falter. Years before she became an oncology nurse, my mother gave me a valuable piece of advice for when I am sick: get up and take a shower everyday even if you can't manage anything else. I have always done just that, even after surgery, even after two C-sections, even when Mom had to watch the baby just so I could take that shower. And you know what, I always felt better afterwards. There are studies and organizations dedicated to helping women cope with chemotherapy with the power of makeup. Before you scoff at the idea, ladies, try this the next time you have a baby, or the flu, whatever-shower or at least wash your hair, fix your hair (at least comb it), and apply lipstick. It won't magically make you all better, but it will lift your spirits.

Lipstick is about the only makeup I really care about. I'm so pale (or pasty) that most foundations make me look like I'm wearing a Kabuki mask; I wear dark-rimmed glasses so eyeshadow is pointless; my eyes are sensitive so mascara is impossible (yes, I know, I've tried them all). The more I wear, the worse I look, so I have stuck to the KISS rule: keep it simple, sister (not Gene Simmons). Tinted moisturizer, single swipe of eyeliner pencil (if at all), and lipstick. I recently added a blush to my meager arsenal-Nars Orgasm, naturally. Ah, but the lipstick, always the lipstick. Never leave home without two tubes in my purse. And I am promiscuous with lipstick, I will try just about any color, any texture. There are about a dozen in my bathroom drawer right now. There are even tests based on the shape of your favorite lipstick that are supposed to indicate personality traits. Lipstick is like a makeover in one little tube. Oh, I include lip glosses and tinted lip balm, too, just as long as it colors the lips. And I don't care if Cleopatra or Parisian prostitutes invented it-if lipstick can make me feel attractive on my fattest days, then it is heaven-sent.

Hair is a different kind of story for me. If you could line up pictures of every single hair style I have worn, well be glad you can't, the number would scare you. When I was a little girl in the 70's, I had long, glossy, stick-straight copper-brown hair. My father loved it, my mother despised it. She wanted a girl with curls and my hair just would not cooperate. Mother wore, and still does, a classic 50's poodle cut, processed to within an inch of its life. She has always waged an epic battle against the natural state of her hair, whatever it might be, I've never seen it. When I was 9, she drafted me into the Hair Wars. She bullied me into getting a tragedy known as the Wedge or the Dorothy Hamil (sorry Dorothy). My father hated it, he liked long hair on girls (as evidenced by his long-standing crush on Cher), especially on his girls. I hated it so much that I dug in my heels and refused further hair cuts until 7th grade. My punishment for going AWOL at the Hair Wars? Toni home perms. To this day the smell of perm solution makes me want to hide under my bed.

Body waves, that what she called them. Maybe she thought she was putting them on her own head instead of mine, because my hair did NOT need any more body!!! Since adolescence, I have been graced with a super-abundance of hair on my head. Now brown, it is thick, heavy, medium-to-coarse, and lots of it. Body waves were like gasoline on a wildfire, not a good idea. Then she told the hairdresser to cut my hair to chin-length. Let that sink in for a moment. Massive quantities of hair unnaturally pumped up with home perms, loosed from the weight that held it somewhat in place, exploded like a pyroclastic cloud. It was a painful time for me and my hair. After several more missteps, it all had to go. Pat, my new hairdresser, loved me. I was up for anything. She'd go to hair shows and come back with wild ideas that she tried on my head; I would draw pictures of haircuts I couldn't find in magazines; good times.

But my real hair story is the long and short of it, literally. My hair looks its best very long or very short. After reflection, I have noticed that I cycle between the two lengths for a limited number of reasons. Hairstyles always say something fundamental about the person wearing them, especially women. Even if that something is "I don't want to look like I care what you think (but I really do)". In high school, most other girls had big 80's hair and I was rebelling against that with my very short hair. After high school, I grew my hair to my waste as a statement of femininity and sensuality to aid me in my search for appropriate male companionship (I did not think this at the time), I wore my hair long for several years into my marriage. Then I began a stressful job and in the midst of that stress, I cut off all my hair to regain control over at least that part of my life. I left that job; and my husband and I began trying in earnest to have a child. I grew my hair long during the course of my fertility treatments and resultant pregnancy, relishing the thicker hair pregnancy can bring. After our son's birth, much of that "extra" hair began to fall out and I wore my still long, scraggly hair in braids or ponytails.

Two years later, I was pregnant again. That time I suffered constant morning sickness for 6 months, all the while dealing with a two year old. My life felt like it was spinning out of control and my body felt like it had been invaded by a malevolent alien. My hair refused to regain its luster and thickness; my ponytail hung like a dead snake down my back; I felt hideous. One day, at the grocery store, I saw a graceful-looking woman with extremely short hair and knew my fate, or rather, my hair's fate. I made the appointment and my hair meet its doom on the beauty parlor floor. It is now pixie-short and worry-free, one thing under control in an out-of-control life. And my husband thinks my hair is cuter  this way. Maybe closer to menopause, when I need to feel ultra-feminine again, I'll grow my hair again. But for now, with two small children, what I need is the time that my hairstyle frees up. And feeling cuter doesn't hurt.

My last post was about freaky fundie swimwear, which inspired me to research other types of "modest" apparel. I have hit the jackpot: there are numerous online resources for various types of modest clothing. There are websites for modest Mormon girls and observant Jewish women, these offer stylish options that conform to their respective guidelines. I'm an Ex-baptist, so my knowledge is pretty thin about Judaism, I understand what Kosher food entails, but could someone comment on what a "kosher neckline" might be? The skirts and shirts and dresses on these sites looked just like clothes you might see at any mall in middle America, only with longer lengths and no cleavage. I even found some websites for clothing for Muslim women, offering beautifully styled and embellished yet fully-covering outfits.

This is a pretty comprehensive list of websites for those interested in doing their own snooping. But I won't make you do all the work, I have found my favorites to share with you. Daddy's Little Princess and The King's Daughters, along with too many others, offer a fine selection of calico bags for women and girls, suitable for shielding poor innocent males from the horror of having to actually see a female form. I'll agree that some of the dresses for little girls are cute and that I myself am not given to parading my flesh for everyone to see, but come on! There is a fine distinction between modesty and shame. Look, if you want to be modest for modesty's sake, fine. Not everyone is comfortable with letting their breasts and nether regions show to the whole world, or tummies, or thighs, or bottoms, or thick ankles, or wobbly upper arms. And I get modesty as part of your religious beliefs, but I don't like or agree with the way the Christian Fundies handle modesty. To these people, personal modesty for women is not to benefit the women per se, it is to not be  "stumbling blocks" to their weak-as-water males and to keep women properly in their places. The woman's spiritual beliefs play little part.

Lest you think that I couldn't possibly know what I am talking about, here's my cred: I was "born in church" meaning I attended from infancy, raised in the Southern Baptist tradition, and constantly bombarded with messages that women were 2nd class submissives, women were weak and unworthy and not allowed to speak in church without permission (?!), and that premarital sex was the same as adultery, I had a youth pastor who thought short hair on women was tantamount to satanism; the same guy informed the boys (in front of the girls) that girls were wicked and wanted to lure them into back-seat nookie (my wording) only to cry "rape" and ruin the boys' lives forever. I got screamed at during a lock-in for dressing punk, was assaulted with two other friends at a Christian music venue for dressing punk (it was the 80's), and was busted at church camp for wearing a dress 2 inches too short. I know, intimately, how these people operate and how they think still, because I still have family in that church. I fortunately was able to deprogram myself so I have a unique insight into this subculture.

So there's the whole "stumbling block" women-are-evil-temptresses-out-to-seduce-squishy-virginal-males thing, and then there's the "wives submit yourselves" aspect. As this rather poisonous doctrine became ever more prevalent in the church, I realized that I would NEVER marry a baptist, because I submit to no one, husband or not. Here's where the cotton bag-dresses come into play: husband treats wife like property, husband realizes normal men don't do this, husband begins to fear normal men, husband makes wife wear shapeless ankle-length bag so no normal men will look at her, because if normal men look at her one of them may begin to desire her. Now, husband is terrified of losing his property because, you see, he has never felt truly secure as a man or even as a human being and cannot trust his wife to love him and remain faithful to him, so he has to rigidly control her at all times, in every particular. This is known as Christian Domestic Discipline, thanks to Atheist In A Minivan for alerting me to this, um, aberration. Which leads me to the Fundie equivalent of Frederick's of Hollywood, or more profanely-Jesus panties. I especially was repulsed by enjoyed the day dresses. These seem perfectly designed to make grown women look like little girls. Freaks. The BDSM crowd is freaked out by these people and that's pretty extreme.

I'm not saying that all of these people are in master/servant type relationships-sure there have got to be women willing to submit and sublimate themselves to their husbands and wear those calico shrouds, but why? Let's turn that around shall we. The husbands of these poor women probably believe they are in fair and loving marriages, while secretly thinking that they got a pretty sweet deal, but would they think it was so fair if they had to be on the submissive end of the spectrum. I didn't find very many, ok only one, site that even mentioned modest clothing of any kind for men. I guess they just don't think that women look at other men lustfully or maybe they realize that controlling women down to their very undergarments means that they never have to learn to control themselves. I'm just sayin'.

While looking online for boardshorts and rash guards as jiggly-bits-concealing swimwear, I ran across this perplexing website. Everything the Christian Taliban girl could want (?) in swimwear. You know, I grew up Southern Baptist, which has always been ultra-conservative in odd areas (dancing anyone?), and I'm not saying this is a good thing, but our swimming was just gender-segregated. Which did absolutely nothing to discourage standing at the fence and gawking at the dripping wet opposite-gender types. While the Falls Creek folks had injunctions against bikinis, they didn't expect us to cover ourselves from neck to knees in the pool! Apparently these folks have forgotten the first rule of Victoriana: you sexualize that which you take great pains to conceal. The sight of a well-turned ankle could send a proper Victorian gentleman into paroxysms of desire, because they were usually hidden under voluminous skirts, petticoats, stockings and high-button shoes. Is it really any wonder that Victorian England produced Jack the Ripper? Now, I'm not in favor of gratuitous displays of body parts usually covered by underwear, but I just don't think that wearing a traditional one-peice bathing suit will damn the wearer or anyone who sees it to perversion and then eventual death and an eternity spent in hell. And another thing, if you are afraid that males exposed to female flesh will lose control and go on some kind of rapacious tear, instead of covering the women, teach the males some freaking control! According to that kind of twisted logic, anyone who drives a nice car is "asking for it" it this time meaning grand theft auto.  Fundies of any stripe need to grow up and stop using women as scapegoats!

Or as I like to call it, my life. I had to go shoe shopping today. Now, I know what you're thinking, yeah right, she had to go shoe shopping, but I did. Really. My black sandals just would not last one more day and I was disappointed; I only got three full summers out of those shoes! I guess that's pretty good, I wore them almost every day. I don't have a lot of shoes, not because I don't want a nice, full, versatile shoe wardrobe, but because I can't find that many shoes. In my size. 5. Narrow. 5 narrow is my official, last-time-I-had-them-measured, size. This has drawn some rather interesting reactions from shoe salespeople. There was the snooty but statuesque saleslady who looked down at me from her impossible height and said, "I don't think we have anything in your size." She couldn't have sounded more offended if I had asked her for shoes made of poop. So I had to look elsewhere for my little poop shoes. She suggested the children's department. And then there was the young man who got a big giggle from my miniscule feet. After my son, I went to have my feet measured anew. You see, I had read that pregnancy can make your feet bigger and I had fresh hope. Off to the department store I went, where the nice young man measured my feet on that little foot-measuring thingy, then he said, "You got widdle, bitty feet!", in a baby-talk voice. I have a hard time choosing who was more insulting, baby-talk man or giraffe-lady.

Condescension aside, I have no problem buying certain shoes in the kids' department, tennis shoes are tennis shoes after all. But pink sparkle mary janes and Dora sandals are just not appropriate for a nearly 40 year old woman. I had to special order my wedding shoes, because you just couldn't find off-white high-heel pumps in childrens' sizes, imagine that. When I find a pair of grown-up shoes that come close to fitting, I wear them to pieces. I don't even look for 5N's, I go for 5M's, even 5 1/2's, which most of my shoes are, because NOBODY carries 5's. Anyway, I have been looking for black sandals all month, all over town. I even thought about ordering online, but mail-order shoes don't seem like a wise choice for my difficult-to-fit feet. But today (cue the angel choir), I found a decent pair and bought them without even checking the price. I buy for fit, not price. Happily, when I got to the check-out, I found that they were not too expensive. I can't tell you where I got them, because I don't want to endanger a source of tiny shoes. We used to have a Naturalizer store here and a great place called Hueys, both excellent dealers in small shoes. Sadly, they are both gone and I have to fight it out with the other 3 ladies in town who wear my size for the available shoes. It's a dog-eat-dog world for those of us afflicted by the Curse.

On my daily morning information-quest, I read this story on Alternet about Hillary Clinton. I'm still proud that I voted for Bill Clinton, twice. His mild tom-catishness never bothered me; he wasn't the first, and certainly won't be the last, President to play a little fast and loose with the ol' marriage vows. For all his faults and human foibles, more people in our country, heck even in other countries, were much better off than they are now. I have been around nearly 4 decades now and have a pretty fair basis of comparison drawing upon my memories of the 70s, 80s, 90s, and now, the aughts. LBJ was president when I was born, but I don't remember that. I do remember Nixon (oy), Ford, Carter, Reagan, Daddy Bush, Clinton, and now Baby Bush. There are things that stand out to me, related or not to the man in office, during each of their terms. Nixon- Watergate naturally, but also the end of the Vietnam War; Ford- the pardon and Squeaky Fromme; Carter- Iran hostages and gas shortages and Billy Beer; Reagan- Iran-Contra, Berlin Wall, Stock Market plummet, trickle down economics (what a joke, my dad got laid-off, that's the impression I have of Reaganomics), I sound like a Billy Joel song, but I also think about high school, Punk/New Wave, and Sony Walkmans;  Daddy Bush- more of the same failed economics, Persian Gulf War I (terrified fiance would get drafted); Clinton- relative peace, prosperity, it was a nice time to be a very young married. And now Baby Bush- where to start, ahhh, Too. Much. Bad. I will say this, if it was inevitable that another Bush be president, shouldn't it have been any of the others. Seems to me, Baby Bush should have been the embarrassing red-neck brother of the real president. He would occasionally wander out of his back-woods glorified double-wide dressed like Larry the Cable Guy and show up at the Rose Garden during a press conference. Carrying a beer in one hand and pumping a backwards "Hook-em Horns" in the air with the other as the Secret Service tries to drag him away, before he breaks free and pukes in the rose bushes, media having a field day. Well, a girl can dream can't she?

All I'm saying is that I and mine have been much better off during Democratic presidencies. And it will always be thus because we are not outrageously wealthy.  Why anyone of more modest means would vote Republican against their own best interests will always be a mystery to me. Honey, it doesn't matter what the quarterback says, he doesn't love you, won't take care of you and only wants one thing in the backseat and when he gets it, he will laugh at your infantile fantasies of being Mrs. Quarterback. He will dump you for the rich girl more suited to his station in life.  In this case Honey, he wanted your vote and he got it. And now he and all of his corporate-buddies are in the locker room, talking about what a whore you are and laughing. Guess you're going to the prom alone and knocked-up. Sorry about the over-use of high school metaphors but isn't life just like high school? Which brings me to the Valedictorian- Hillary Clinton.

I can't vote for her in the primaries, I wish I could, but I can't. Should she get the nomination, I will vote for her, but not until then. I think she is too polarizing to win here in Oklahoma. And here is the deal: we must win, for the sake of everyone's freedom, we must win. My wise father once told me that the price I pay for my freedom of speech is that those I disagree with also share that freedom. So for everyone that may take issue with my opinions and expressing of them, when we win, your freedoms will be protected as well. But to get there, we need to have a candidate that can win with everyone who is not happy with the direction our country is taking. Too many people will vote against Hillary, not because she is a woman but because she is that woman. I will not throw away my vote on a lost cause. Do I have to turn over my feminist card now?

While perusing a momblog today I came across a link to. Is this a scam? Are these the two ballsiest people ever? Are they serious? The last possibility scares me the most.

In short, this couple made a depressingly common mistake-they forgot that sexual intercourse can lead to babies. Maybe they had abstinence-only sex ed., and we all know how very effective the phrase "Just Say No" is with teenagers. Anyway, they are unmarried and unprepared for parenthood and facing some very difficult decisions. There is nothing new about the choices facing this couple, many couples before, and many more to come, have had to make these very choices. But they have struck upon a novel way to shift the responsibility for their choice onto us, the internet public. They are hosting a telethon of sorts wherein they are holding their own fetus hostage and demanding a ransom in the amount of $50,000 or they will "have" to do the unthinkable and abort the fetus. Let's not mince words-kill the baby. The 50 grand will allow them to set themselves up in the kind of comfort they believe they, and by extension, their baby deserves. They mention a down payment on a house, a reliable car, a college fund, medical expenses (she's uninsured, presumably because his employer doesn't offer benefits to those who are shacking up), and a nice buffer to help while she's not working. That's some cushy maternity leave. Funny, nobody offered me these things when my kids were born, at 50K per kid, that $100,000 would sure come in handy. Oh, and adoption is off the table, she doesn't think that she will be able to part with her hostage once it has passed through her vagina. Some kind of reverse Stockholm Syndrome, no doubt.

And they are shocked that they are receiving hate mail. The word hubris springs to mind. I am so tempted to write them an angry letter myself and I'm pro-choice! Look, every parent-be has that awful moment. That "Oh my god, I can't do this, we're not ready, what are we gonna do?!" moment happens every time, even if the child in question is the most wanted, most prepared for, baby ever. We went through years of trying and fertility treatments and we still panicked when we learned our son was on his way. I checked that stupid stick about 100 times a day in a state of shock and fear before I calmed down and realized that nobody is ever truly prepared to have a child. No one, ever, in the history of history has been 100% ready and sure about having a child, no one.

And since I am an adult and pro-choice, I realize that sometimes we are faced with difficult, hard, dirty, ugly decisions that must be faced. And refusing to cowboy-up and make the ugly choice for themselves and shouldering the full repercussions of said choice just shows that these two people, no matter their calendar ages, are not functioning adults capable even of giving informed consent to have sex. I tremble with rage, knowing that there are certain, rare conditions that could induce me to seek an abortion (health, physical well-being and living to care for the two children I already have), but greed is not one of them. I personally believe that the choice to terminate a pregnancy is no one's business but that of the parent(s), doctors and whatever Higher Power, if any, the woman believes in. I would never dream of imposing my will on anyone else, my freedom to swing my fist ends before it connects with the other guy's nose. And no one else should be able to impose their will upon me. So I will not be donating to this highly questionable cause, supposing it's not an elaborate hoax. In fact, I resent this couple trying to involve me in what should properly be their most private and personal decision.

If the internet public overcomes its collective revulsion and ponies up the ransom, the couple states that they will raise their child well, he or she "won't grow up and rob you". I guess that task has been left to the parents. They also don't believe that their child will be psychologically damaged by their little fund-raising drive because they have taken every precaution to remain anonymous. That their child's very survival depended upon a mercenary demand for money is their little secret. Well, parents-to-be(?), secrets are damnable hard to keep. Someday, your unfortunate child, should you raise enough cash to spare his life, may stand before you and demand that you explain yourselves. Hope you have an answer.

What is the most interesting class you have ever taken? 
Submitted by Melissa. 

I've always loved school and have taken many interesting classes. But the most interesting course was Creative Writing at Rogers State College in Claremore. The coursework was fun, but by far the best part was my classmates. Hearing the unique voices and visions was eye-opening. My most memorable classmate was none other Carrie Dickerson,  Aunt Carrie herself. The woman who stopped what could have been the worst disaster ever to face our beautiful state. When PSO proposed the Black Fox nuclear power plant, she foresaw the danger of a nuclear power plant in tornado alley, and she led the fight to shut it down before it ever started. And she succeeded.

What's the weirdest baby name you've ever heard (or considered)?

My old roommate knew a lady named Female. Seems her parents believed the hospital had already named her and decided not to contradict them. Supposedly, if one said her name in its usual pronunciation, one would receive a withering stare, and be correct just so: "It's Female." pronounced like tamale.

I miss church but that's not exactly surprising. From the time before I can remember until I married, I went to church. There were services of course: Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday night fellowship dinner and prayer meeting, Fifth Quarter after football games on Friday nights, Saturday morning bus ministry, puppet ministry, choir, VBS, Falls Creek, and more that I'll recall well after I'm done with this.  I was a church-geek. Mind you, I phased in and out of these activities at different times but church always provided a significant portion of my social life, sad thing that it was. The only activity I absolutely could not and would not participate in was Monday night witnessing.

For those fortunate enough to have never encountered this particular diseased element in modern evangelical churches, I shall explain. Witnessing is going door to door, like the Fuller Brush Man, in your community and "spreading the good news". You are supposed to share your personal conversion story to unsaved sinners. Because, as you might know, the average American community is simply a hotbed of satanic influence wherein we, as the privileged saved, are under commandment to ensure that everyone is scared and guilted into becoming Christian. It's really just a high-pressure membership drive designed to increase tithes, but don't tell 'em I told you. I never could get behind witnessing. Are we really to believe that people should convert and join so they can avoid hell? And we have to tell them that? Couldn't do it.

What I do miss is something I've never even had. There's a place called Har-Ber Village near Grand Lake, it's a collection of collections. There are log cabins, a schoolhouse, collections of old ephemera, and a little lake-front church. Outside the church is a statue of Christ with His arms outstretched in a gesture of benediction over the water. When the lake is low or normal level, He is surrounded by flowers; if the lake is high, He is surrounded by water. The tiny church, more of a chapel really, is quiet and peaceful. There, sitting on the hard benches, hearing the waves gently kiss the shore, I feel as close to God as I ever have.

I like to believe that He is more present in the small places than in the grand cathedrals. Like a lot of Americans, I tend to idealize the Old West and the Pioneers and, my other ancestors, the Indians who met them. I think about the little Indian Missions, the frontier churches and the honest, diligent people who filled them, and I am jealous. I envy them their community, their lack of doubt, and their seamless weaving of the Divine into the mundane.

Please don't think I pine for "the good old days", when women regularly died in childbirth and children died of cholera or diptheria or measles. And I don't think that being "good Christians" excused the killing of Indians, or holding other humans in bondage, or discrimination against other ethnic groups or religious sects. Small congregations can be just as venomous and condemning as larger ones, maybe more so. Maybe it is the intimacy, the immediacy that appeals to me.

But I attended a tiny church once with my grandparents. I felt no closer to God in the presence of only 11 people as opposed to hundreds. Then I think back to Har-Ber Village. Perhaps it is the lake, the pelicans, the muted whispers, the faint creaking of the trees as they sway in time with the water, or the occasional burst of childish joy, I don't know, but when I am there I know He is, too.  If I could find a way to share my direct, personal experience of the Divine, I could witness about It. Instead, I hold It deep in the recesses of my soul and hope that others can, somehow, have their own direct feeling of the Divine.