a physicist at your funeral

Just found this over on FB, at The Pagan Momma, and its too good not to share here!

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.

-Aaron Freeman.

Gaia Consort – Beltaine

 

A health to the mothers of the Merry Begotten
A health to the maiden with the firey eyes
A health to the crone that smiles beside us
On the other side of a Beltane Fire

A health to the sweet rain gently falling
Down upon the Earth so fair
A health to the wind that Gails around us
And feeds the passion of a Beltane Fire

A health to the lovley green-eyed Susan
She whose heart is my desire
And after all the May Pole’s rising
Will you leap with me now o’er a Beltane Fire?

Alternate verse
A health to the acts of love and pleasure
A health to the way the May poles rise
A health to those who bear no children
So those who do come along survive!

Copyright 2000 Christopher Bingham

Eo! The Maiden and the horned one
Eo! The call to spill the seed
Eo! The stirring of the Cauldron
Eo Evohe!

Eo! The Green Man ever present
Eo! The Raven in the wood
Eo! The kisses ripe for tasting
Eo Evohe!

Eo! The rising of the sleepers
Eo! To hear the Pipe at dawn
Eo! The quickening is here
Eo Evohe!

Eo! The sweet rain gently falling
Eo! The seed deep in the Earth
Eo! I hear my lovers calling
Eo Evohe!

Eo! The lusty summer coming
Eo! The green leaf in the bud
Eo! The wild sap is running
Eo Evohe!

Eo! The musky Piper playing
Eo! The One Who Calls the Dance
Eo! The howling earth is saying
Eo Evohe!

The Wisdom of Louie C.K

 

“That’s such a confusing thing to me, because you believe that God gave you the Earth, that God created the Earth for you. Why would you not have to look after it?

Why would you not think that, when he came back, he’d go ‘What the fuck did you do? I gave this to you motherfucker, are you crazy? The polar bears are brown, what’d you do?! What’d you do to the polar bears, did you shit all over every polar bear? Who spilled this shit? Come over here, did you spill this? What is that?

(sniveling idiot voice) ‘It’s oil, it’s just some oil. I didn’t mean to spill it’

‘Well why did you take it out of the fucking ground?

‘Cause I wanted to go faster, it’s not fast enough, and it was cold’

‘What the fuck do you mean it’s cold? I gave you everything you needed you piece of shit.’

‘Well cause jobs, I wanted a job’

‘What is a job? Explain to me, what’s a fucking job?’

‘You work at a place and people call when their game doesn’t work and you help them figure it out’

‘What do you that for?’

‘For money’

‘What do you need MONEY for?’

‘For food’

‘Just eat the shit on the floor, I left shit all over the floor, fucking corn and wheat and shit, ground it up make some bread what are you doing?’

‘Yeah but it doesn’t have bacon on it, I like when it has like bacon on it’”

I is for the Declaration of Interdependence

Reblogged from Naturalistic Pantheist Musings:

This we know...
We are the earth, through the plants and animals that nourish us.
We are the rains and the oceans that flow through our veins.
We are the breath of the forests of the land, and the plants of the sea.
We are human animals, related to all other life as descendants of the firstborn cell.
We share with these kin a common history, written in our genes.

Read more… 341 more words

<3

“Pretty”

 

“When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this fun house mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.

“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb, that’s why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don’t worry. We’ll get it all fixed!” she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By sixteen, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on two pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwinding the gift-wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me.

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but who haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath the tyranny of those two pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you will never be merely ‘pretty’.”

 

Late March

By Edward Hirsch, American Poet

Saturday morning in late March.
I was alone and took a long walk,
though I also carried a book
of the Alone, which companioned me.

The day was clear, unnaturally clear,
like a freshly wiped pane of glass,
a window over the water,
and blue, preternaturally blue,
like the sky in a Magritte painting,
and cold, vividly cold, so that
you could clap your hands and remember
winter, which had left a few moments ago—
if you strained you could almost see it
disappearing over the hills in a black parka.
Spring was coming but hadn’t arrived yet.
I walked on the edge of the park.
The wind whispered a secret to the trees,
which held their breath
and scarcely moved.
On the other side of the street,
the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe.

I walked down to the pier to watch
the launching of a passenger ship.
Ice had broken up on the river
and the water rippled smoothly in blue light.
The moon was a faint smudge
in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought
in the vacant mind of the sky.
Seagulls materialized out of vapor
amidst the masts and flags.
Don’t let our voices die on land,
they cawed, swooping down for fish
and then soaring back upwards.

The kiosks were opening
and couples moved slowly past them,
arm in arm, festive.
Children darted in and out of walkways,
which sprouted with vendors.
Voices greeted the air.
Kites and balloons. Handmade signs.
Voyages to unknown places.
The whole day had the drama of an expectation.

Down at the water, the queenly ship
started moving away from the pier.
Banners fluttered.
The passengers clustered at the rails on deck.
I stood with the people on shore and waved
goodbye to the travelers.
Some were jubilant;
others were broken-hearted.
I have always been both.

Suddenly, a great cry went up.
The ship set sail for the horizon
and rumbled into the future
but the cry persisted
and cut the air
like an iron bell ringing
in an empty church.
I looked around the pier
but everyone else was gone
and I was left alone
to peer into the ghostly distance.
I had no idea where that ship was going
but I felt lucky to see it off
and bereft when it disappeared.